


Blind Side

by Eliot_L



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: CW: Racial Slur, Caught-Up-To-2016 AU, Comfort, Current Events, F/M, Family Drama, Gaslighting if you squint, Gen, Grief, I would have said death if I meant death, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Major Character Injury, Owl Visitation, Pancakes, Past Jacob Nighthorse/OFC implied, Police brutality mention, Politics, Post-Season/Series 05, So Much Lawyering, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vic's Catholic upbringing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-08-20 07:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 36,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8240890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliot_L/pseuds/Eliot_L
Summary: In Cady's mind, Jacob Nighthorse's name had always been just a cypher for unspecified dangers: Here Be Dragons. Now that she's working for him to provide legal representation on the rez, she realizes that at least some of his motives are noble. He's a three-dimensional person to her, but is she seeing the whole picture? Or are there always hidden corners, shadows, blind spots? Aren't these the very things that make us human? *Season 5 spoilers*





	1. Turnabout

**Author's Note:**

> Starts about three weeks after Season 5 ends. Some deus-ex-machina resolution of current plot lines is in here, because by the end of Season 5, pretty much everyone's cliff done been hung. NB, I am not a legal professional, so my interpretation of the law may be broken. In Chapter 1, this might be due to Cady's inexperience and having more sympathy than sense, but in further chapters, any faults of legal research are my own. Gen so far, but by Chapter 4, several different characters have hinted they believe Cady/Jacob is going on, so I felt compelled to change that designation. No smoke without fire, &c.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cady's legal aid work puts her at odds with Jacob over a labor law issue. Snark and politics ensue, but Jacob reveals something that throws Cady for a loop.

Exiting the elevator, Cady found herself wishing the casino's corridors were not so plush. _Much more satisfying when I can hear my heels_   _click,_ she thought to herself _._ No matter. She rapped on the office door, a confident echo of her heartbeat.

Jacob's muffled voice. "Come in." He stood bent over some architectural drafts. _Reading glasses? That's new._ He sized up her facial expression, folding his glasses into his shirt pocket. “Well. You look dressed for battle.”

“It doesn’t have to be a battle if you’re reasonable about this.” Cady’s practiced, conciliatory smile didn’t seem to amuse Jacob today.

“Tell me what ‘this’ is, and I’ll decide whether reason is what’s called for.”

“Celia Running Deer has a solid, documented sexual harassment case, and your new employment contract is going to deprive her of justice.” She dropped a copy of the complaint on his desk.

He sighed as if already tired of the subject, his voice acidic and patronizing. “Cady, you are wasting my time. And if I didn’t know better, I might think you were taking advantage of our friendship. If you want to argue politics, I’m sure there’s an open barstool at the Red Pony.” His gaze returned to the papers on his desk.

Livid at his casual dismissal, Cady continued to press her case. “You say you want this casino to help your community, but you know that a mandatory arbitration clause means that anyone who works for you will never be able to get adequate legal remedies in any dispute with their employer. They’ll receive token settlements if any, and those responsible will get away with a slap on the wrist, just a note in their employee file and then back on the floor. If Calvin Blackwolf’s case had gone through arbitration, you never would have caught on to Malachi’s embezzling scheme, and he would have fleeced you for hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation for acting on good business sense.”

"If your plans are as ambitious as you say they are, in ten years you’ll have 80% of the Cheyenne nation working for you. And then, these people you’ve been sweating blood to empower? They’ll be unable to improve the conditions of their own workplace.” She paused, waiting for Jacob to look at her before leveling her last accusation. “The entire upper level of management here exists effectively above the law.”

“Wrong again, Miss Longmire. Mandatory arbitration clauses are standard in right-to-work states, of which Wyoming is one, and are never intended to protect management from appropriate consequences. Now, short of sending you back to law school, there is nothing I can do for either you or your client.”

Cady paused. Underneath his disdainful ire, there was information. “You did this _because_ of Calvin’s case, didn't you? You put this clause in right after we settled the complaint. Right after you put that check in my hands.” _Always five moves ahead of me._

“On the advice of my own counsel, yes, I did.” Jacob straightened his posture and fixed Cady with a butterfly-pinning stare. “What you have failed to understand is how that clause protects the ability of this casino to benefit the _entire_ tribe, not just the few who work here. The average hospitality enterprise of this size pays $75,000 per year to settle employee claims. Multiply that by a decade, and you might find a familiar figure. Now, if that money was out of the pockets of a bunch of rich, white investors, it wouldn’t bother me. But somehow, you can’t see the moral obligation I have placed myself under to the people of this reservation, people who are now your family as much as they are mine. Without that clause, the casino opens itself up to frivolous lawsuits from desperate people, and if that happens, then your mother was right. This place will do more harm than good, and I will not allow that.” He sidled around the corner of the desk, hands in his pockets. Close enough to Cady that she knew he was testing her resolve, her ability to stand her ground. Close enough for her to smell… something. Sage, wet earth? _Probably hair product._ An unkind thought, but it stiffened her spine and she felt her heels dig into the dense carpet while Jacob continued his rant. “You need to learn to think about the good of the tribe, now that you’re part of it. Take your white, individualist, adversarial blinders off and start thinking with your heart.” Emphasizing his point, he tapped two fingers on the sliver of her sternum left bare by her black silk blouse.

“So my appeal to reason is denied, then.” Cady was still stung by his offhand reference to her mother, but unwilling to be intimidated.

Jacob sighed intensely. “I am done with this conversation, _counselor,_ and the next time you try an end-run around my HR policies because you think you can lean on our personal connection, I won’t be so kind.”

“This issue isn’t going away, Jacob. I’m seeing more and more casino workers on the rez who have employment-related complaints, and if it takes a class action, or an antitrust suit, or protests in the parking lot, I’ll fight for them until we’ve resolved their concerns.” At the suggestion of protests, Jacob let out a bark of laughter, as if in recognition of his own past. Cady turned to leave. “I’m prepared to coach Celia through every single arbitration session until it’s settled. I’m sorry if that gets in the way of your benevolent dictatorship.” She shut the door behind her with deliberate care, and strode towards the bank of elevators.

As the elevator doors closed, she saw her reflection, poised and lawyerly, and heard her father’s voice in her head. _You sure do clean up well, Punk._ Her eyes caught on the pale skin above her heart, and she had a sudden impulse to brush away the lingering impression of Jacob’s fingers, as if they had left behind a dusting of pollen. Instead, she buttoned her blouse a little higher.

She hadn’t quite made it through the noisy, flashing casino floor to the lobby before her cell rang. She read the caller’s name and grimaced, anticipating some spiteful last word from Jacob. “Had a change of heart after actually reading Celia’s complaint?”

“Hmm, no, but I did want to concede a point,” Jacob replied. “One I’m not sure you knew you were making.”

“Hang on, let me record this for posterity.” Jacob’s impatient exhale filled the brief pause. “I was joking.”

“You were right to demonstrate to me that you do not, in fact, represent me, nor are you part of the casino’s legal team. Your job is to represent the clients you have, and much as I may disagree with some of the assumptions behind this country’s justice system, you are doing that job admirably.”

“Thank you.”

“I was so blinded by your impassioned rhetoric that I forgot to show you something in these blueprints that I think you’ll find interesting. Why don’t you come back upstairs for a moment?”

 _More like hypnotized by the sound of his own voice._ “Fine, I’ll be right there.”

When she reached Jacob’s office door, it was open. Jacob was leaning against the side of his desk, arms folded across his chest, all tension from their previous encounter dissipated. “Benevolent dictator, that was a cute little flourish.” If that was his attempt at a conciliatory smile, Cady thought it needed work.

“What did you want to show me?”

“Come around this side and look at these elevations for a new hospital,” he offered. Intrigued but wary, Cady’s steps were tentative. “If I was more harsh with you than you deserved, it might be because I’m trying to do something I don’t do very often, that I’m not very good at.” Jacob’s voice had softened into something like apology. “I should have done it a long time ago.”

“Done what?”

He leaned closer to her, resting a hand on the desk to point to the title of the draft, a phrase in small blue capitals at the bottom of the paper. As she read and re-read the words, trying to process their meaning, Cady heard Jacob’s voice low in her ear. “Offer your father a peace pipe.”

_MARTHA LONGMIRE MEMORIAL ONCOLOGY WING_

Cady stifled a gasp, and may have whispered Jacob’s name under her breath. Her voice guttered and cracked as she held back tears. “I don’t even know where to start.” She spun to look at Jacob with wet eyes. “Did Henry give you this idea? This sounds like Henry.”

“He might have had something to do with it.” Jacob paused to look at Cady, taking in her incredulous joy. “Does that mean you like the idea, or you think it’s going to get me thrown in jail?” He threw Cady a conspiratorial half-smile.

Cady’s laughter warred unsteadily with sobs, and soon her remembered grief overtook her, mixing with deep gratitude and impossible hope. With her face buried in her hands, she felt Jacob’s arms come around her, a curiously paternal gesture. She tried to take a few deep breaths, wipe her tears, step back and put her professional face back on. “Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

“Don’t apologize for your strengths, sister.” He wiped the last tear from her face, tracing the salt water like warpaint over her cheeks and across her forehead. Cady shut her eyes, unsure what to make of this strange benediction. “We haven’t finalized the site for the hospital yet, so I’d appreciate it if this was held in confidence, for the time being.”

“Oh, of course. Do you know when? It’s just, I’d love to be able to tell my dad… Unless you want to?”

“No, it would be better coming from you,” Jacob said. “If I told him, he’d insist on finding some ugly ulterior motive. Your father’s conviction that I am constantly trying to manipulate him…”

“Is a complicated topic, for another time.” Cady turned for one last look at the hospital blueprint and took a steadying breath. “I still can’t believe you’re doing this. This is incredible, she would be so grateful, and honored, and, frankly, really surprised. Which, coincidentally, are also things that I feel right now.” Cady didn’t think she had ever seen that look on Jacob’s face before, almost bashfulness, or even humility. “Don’t think for a minute it gets you off the hook with me, though. Celia and I are still gonna sue your ass.”

Jacob’s eyes twinkled in response, and a slow smile spread across his face. “Yes, well, when you burn me in effigy on the lawn, make sure it’s somewhere they can see from the VIP lounge. There’s nothing rich, white investors like more than the impotent rage of the working classes.”

Cady shook her head and smiled as she walked back out to the elevators, slowly, barely feeling the floor beneath her. Her heart floated in her chest, alternately hopeful and apprehensive. In the final analysis, would this grand gesture actually fix anything? Would it repair the years of mistrust and animosity between Nighthorse and her father? _Get over yourself, do they really matter if this place saves even one person’s life?_ Her father and her employer would probably never do more than grudgingly tolerate each other. And truth be told, one hospital did not make up for the fact that Nighthorse was starting to treat the rez as his own private fiefdom. The more she thought about it, the more it disturbed her. She pushed her worries to the back of her mind as the elevator descended into weightlessness, floor by floor. In the mirrored door, she noticed that the button on her blouse which she had fastened before had come undone.


	2. Cui Bono?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cady tells Henry a secret, and tries to take his temperature about Nighthorse’s intentions.

It had been a full day at the legal aid center, even after her unscheduled meeting with Jacob, and Cady felt she had earned herself a beer. Possibly more than one. As the day wore on, she had grown uncertain that either her father or Henry would see Jacob’s proposed hospital as demonstration of a changed heart. She was alone in the ramshackle house, having sent Mandy home at half past five, and it was now almost eight. Her eyes rested on the antique dowry rifle Jacob had given her, leaning in the corner of her office. Well, there was nothing for it but to face the evening head on; she gathered up the day’s case files, locked the file cabinet, and turned out the lights. She made a mental note to call Sam Poteet tomorrow about replacing the various broken windowpanes - currently patched with cardboard - before autumn arrived in earnest.

When Cady pulled into the Red Pony’s parking lot, she noticed it was busier than the average Monday night. She felt only slight guilt for parking in one of the staff spaces at the side of the building, next to Henry’s little green pickup. As she walked in, she read the chalkboard next to the front door: _Tonight: Benefit for Rosa Burns-Harjo_. Well, that explained the crowd, and the amplified acoustic guitar she heard.

One seat at the bar remained open down at the end, near Henry’s office. The crowd seemed appreciative, if a little somber, as they applauded the end of the last song. “Good evening, Cady. What can I get you?” Henry wheeled smoothly around the corner of the bar, each hand clutching four used pint glasses. It had been several weeks since his ordeal on the Crow reservation, and he still looked slightly worse for wear, but at least he was no longer noticeably limping.

“Just a beer, thanks, Henry. What’s with the benefit, is this about the divorce? I just had Ferg serve Rosa’s husband papers last week.”

Henry busied himself behind the bar, his eyes avoiding Cady’s face. “It is about the divorce, in a manner of speaking. Rosa was brought to the rez clinic yesterday with a concussion, cornea damage, and a dislocated shoulder. They are raising money to cover her medical expenses.” Unasked, he grabbed a clean shotglass from the counter and set it in front of Cady, filling it with whiskey. For a moment she was confused, but then she realized the tacit meaning of Henry’s gesture: Rosa’s injuries had been caused by her husband, whose fits of rage were part of the reason for the divorce in the first place. Cady shut her eyes for a moment and swore under her breath. Henry moved off to pour her a beer from the taps. After downing the shot, Cady removed her checkbook from her purse and wrote out a check for $500. On the memo line, she cynically toyed with the idea of writing _refund for inadequate legal defense_. Instead, she just wrote in _medical expenses_ and left it at that. She folded the check in half and walked it over to the side of the small stage, where a woven basket was already half-full of small bills.

When she returned to her seat, she saw Henry had brought her a cup of chili in addition to her beer. He stood behind the bar, drying glassware. “You look like you have not eaten in a while, so I took the liberty of ordering you some dinner.”

“Thanks, Henry, but I don’t have much of an appetite right now.”

Henry gave her a stern, parental look. “Eat, or I will replace your Blue Moon with the 90-minute IPA that I just tapped this evening.” Cady wrinkled her nose at the idea of hoppy beer, and obediently picked up her spoon.

“I came here with good news, actually,” Cady said between bites of chili. “Do you remember talking to Jacob Nighthorse, something about a hospital?”

Henry furrowed his brow. “I do not remember the specifics, but he may have mentioned it in passing.”

Cady’s smile managed to clear about half the despair from her face, and she leaned across the bar to tell Henry her news in an excited, confidential tone. “He’s gonna build it.” She looked at Henry, who still seemed skeptical. “He showed me the blueprints this morning. And I bet you’ll never guess who they’re naming the cancer ward after.” She raised her eyebrows and sipped her beer, mockingly inviting him to guess.

Realization dawned over Henry’s face. “Ah, now I remember the conversation you are referring to. I believe your mother would be pleased by this development, if it actually comes to pass, and also confused. Excuse me, there is a table that needs my attention.” He grabbed two orders from the kitchen pass-through and headed to a couple seated by the fireplace. Cady had expected him to be more excited about her announcement, but she wasn’t shocked. Her father’s deep distrust of Nighthorse seemed to be infectious.

The next time Henry passed in front of her chair, it was to clear away her empty bowl. “So what do you think about it?”

“What do I think about Jacob Nighthorse showing you plans he has had drawn up for a building with your last name on it? I do not wish to rain on your parade, Cady, but as your father might say, I will believe it when I see it. You appear to imagine that your obsessive optimism about Nighthorse can cosmically balance out your father’s obsessive pessimism about him. I am no expert in metaphysics, but I do not think it works that way.”

Cady scoffed, swirling the last of her beer around in its glass. “Don’t you believe people can change?” She looked over the length of the bar, where the band was packing up their gear.

Henry nodded an acknowledgment. “I do. And it would mean a great deal to me if your father and Nighthorse found a way to - how shall I put it - bury the hatchet.” Cady raised an eyebrow at this attempted witticism. “But it reminds me of an old Cheyenne saying that my dance teacher was fond of.”

“Oh, what’s that?” Cady drank the last of her beer and handed the glass to Henry, trying to imagine him taking dance lessons.

He paused for effect. “For a tango to be successful, two partners are required.” Henry held Cady’s faux-exasperated gaze until she indulged him with a laugh.

“Okay, that joke is too corny to be believed, but I take your point. How do you solve a problem like Walt Longmire?”

“You denigrate my humor to my face, in my own bar, and your comeback is a Rodgers and Hammerstein reference?” Henry bantered back.

Cady smirked and left a twenty on the bar. “Goodnight, Henry.” She slipped her purse over her shoulder and made her way back through the bar to the swinging doors. She felt, if not exactly comforted, at least slightly repaired from the emotional rollercoaster this had become. Absently checking her phone for the time, she noticed that Walt had called and left a voicemail. After Henry had been rescued from Malachi and his henchmen, and safely ensconced in the hospital, her father had disappeared into the woods for almost two weeks. The only evidence that he wasn't at the bottom of a cliff somewhere was a note tacked to the door of his cabin: _Gone for a walk to clear my head. Back soon._ Returning to find himself placed on administrative leave by the governor, although thankfully not removed from office, he had been at loose ends ever since. Cady sat in the quiet of the parking lot and listened to the recording of her dad’s terse, uncertain voice.

 _“Uh… Hey, Cady. It’s your dad. I… um, have some paperwork that I need you… well, I’d like you to sign. It’s just some, ah, estate stuff. I don’t know, maybe I should make an appointment with you at your office.”_ Even in Walt’s toneless voice, this sounded a little snide to her. _“Anyway, I’ll come by and drop it off in the morning, and we can… talk about it when you have time. Alright. See you soon.”_

“Love you too, Dad,” she replied absently to herself as she got back on the road and headed towards Durant. “Oh and by the way, your sworn enemy is building a cancer treatment center in honor of your sainted dead wife, just to make up for pissing you off by paying your daughter a six-figure salary to actually do meaningful work for once. But, you know, don’t worry about that, just keep spinning your wheels about your civil suit. I’ll wait.” Henry was a good friend and a reliable confidant, but sometimes she wished she had someone in her life who she could complain to without having to hear her father’s side of things. She turned on the radio to occupy her racing thoughts on the drive home.


	3. Paterfamilias

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walt visits Cady at her office on the rez, where his anger drives him to new suspicions about Nighthorse. Cady maintains that sometimes a rifle is just a rifle.

True to Nighthorse’s recommendation, Cady had to admit, Sam Poteet was proving to be both dependable and efficient. It wasn’t his fault that the electric sander he was using to get the bloodstain out of the office’s hardwood floor was making it almost impossible for her to concentrate. He had arrived shortly after she called him this morning, eager to begin, and had already finished a few small tasks before starting in on the floorboards. Cady glanced at the wall across from her desk, where the antique rifle now hung. She still wasn’t used to the mixed emotions it stirred up. Even Sam had asked her if she wouldn’t rather have it mounted over the fireplace, but Cady felt safer with it closer to hand. What was it Jacob had said? _Nobody knows what threats the world holds for them_. She thought about the box of ammunition locked in her top left desk drawer, absently running her hand over the handle.

A sudden banging noise made her heart leap into her throat. Her father loomed in the windows of her office door, hat in hand. He opened the door tentatively, but Cady could barely make out his voice over the high-pitched whirr of the hand sander. She put her hand up in a ‘hold-that-thought’ gesture and angled past him through the door, yelling Sam’s name to get his attention. Unsuccessful, she bent down and waved a hand in front of his face until he shut down the sander and pulled off his ear protection. “Hey, can you… I have this meeting I have to take,” she said, gesturing at her father, “could you take a break for a few minutes?”

Sam had to remove his rebreather to reply. “I’m about done with this. Okay if I just sweep up, and then I can take a look at the roof?”

“Yeah, sure, of course.” Cady looked down at the floor, relieved to see no trace of her tragic standoff with JP Wright. “Thanks.” She turned back to Walt, who she could now see was holding a manila envelope in addition to his hat. Her smile was tense, but hopeful. “Why don’t we step into my office, Dad?” As they walked in, Walt shut the door behind them, giving Sam Poteet what Cady thought was a rather resentful gaze through the uneven windowpanes. “So, what can I do for you?”

“You know, Cady, I coulda…” he trailed off, gesturing back at the erstwhile bloodstain.

Cady crossed her arms and gave her dad a defiant glare. _Too little, too late._ “Yeah, well I would’ve asked, but I didn’t really feel like hearing you tell me to quit this job again, so.” She let silence hang between them, no longer willing to do her father’s share of the emotional labor.

Walt fiddled with the manila envelope, shifting uneasily on his feet. “I just came by with, ah… In case anything happened to me, you know, I wouldn’t want you to have to go through… um, probate, that kind of thing, so… Anyway, the cabin’s gonna go to you, and the, uh, land… Might as well do it sooner rather than later, so… that’s what this is.”

“Wow,” Cady said, taking the envelope from his hands, “your lawyer must be pretty pessimistic if he’s moved on to the cover-your-assets phase.”

Walt looked bashfully at his boots, grimacing at being caught out. “You got me there, Punk.”

“I’m a lawyer, too, Dad, I know how these things go.” Cady sat at her desk and prepared to start signing, turning to the first little yellow sticky-flag in the document. “When does the trial start?”

“Uh… Wednesday, I think.” Walt shuffled his hat around nervously.

“That would be tomorrow.” Cady knew her father had an avoidant streak, but in the last few months his avoidance had verged on self-destruction. “Take a seat.”

“I gotta get back, Cady, you can just drop - “

“No, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to sit there while I finish signing these and making two copies for the record, then you are immediately going to get in your truck and deliver the signed copy and one duplicate, _by hand_ , to the Recorder of Deeds’ office.” She leaned over to pull her billfold out of her purse. “You are going to give them an extra $80 to expedite processing, and then you are going to call me to confirm that this has all happened.”

“That all sounds pretty serious.”

“It is serious. If the transfer of ownership doesn’t happen before the judge hears the case, it could be taken as damages, and we could both be charged with fraud. This should’ve happened weeks ago.” She turned to slot the stack of papers into the top of the copier-printer behind her chair, and pushed a few buttons.

Walt paced nervously around the space in front of his daughter’s desk, chastened, unwilling to look at her. When he saw the embellished rifle hanging on the wall, his pacing took on a frantic edge. Cady slammed the handle of the heavy-duty stapler twice in succession. “Cady, is that the rifle you used to…”

“Kill a man who was threatening to shoot a client of mine? Yep, that’s it.” She slid a thick stack of paper back into the manila envelope and bent down the metal fastener to close it.

“Who gave it to you?” Cady didn’t answer, just put one hand on her hip and lay the envelope on her desk, clenching her jaw as she listened to her father spin out his question. “That’s a traditional Cheyenne dowry rifle, Cady, it’s not just some antique, it’s got a meaning. Now, if you didn’t know that, it’s okay, there’s no reason you should, but it’s basically an engagement ring. It’s a very serious gift, and I need to know who gave it to you. Was it Henry?”

“No.” Cady maintained an impassive stare, unsure whether she could believe her own father’s words in this moment.

Walt felt a wave of guilt pass through him. He really didn’t know what was going on in Cady’s life anymore, and whose fault was that? “Are you… have you been seeing anyone lately? Someone you met here, on the rez?” He ran through the short list of Cheyenne men that he could imagine Cady ever taking a fancy to. “Mathias, or some friend of Henry’s?” He wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but he thought could get used to it after a while. As long as this fellow was the right kind of Indian.

“Not that you’ve been paying attention, but I’ve been on maybe two dates since Branch and I broke up, and that was,” she paused in thought, “almost a year ago.”

There was only one option left, then - if Cady had fallen under the spell of his greatest enemy, he had to know. He had to know, and he had to save her from that fate, whatever it took. Walt took a deep breath and exhaled, flaring his nostrils. Color suffused his face, and Cady thought how glad she was that he couldn’t actually breathe fire. “Was it Nighthorse? Did he give you that rifle?” Walt paced the small room, tiger-like, aggressively scooting a chair aside as he got closer to her desk. “Are you involved with him?” He spat the words out, barely able to tolerate the thought. “Goddamnit, Cady, _are you_?!”

Cady let the echo of Walt’s rage fade before she responded, unsure whether to laugh or scream. Her calm, measured voice was a rebuke to his irrational outburst, and he knew it. “You mean, is Jacob Nighthorse in a romantic relationship with a woman who is both his employee and half his age? I don’t think that’s really his style, Dad.” Her steady gaze told him exactly what she thought was going on between him and his deputy, Vic. “And yes, he gave me that rifle as a token of his trust in my ability to do this job. If he has… dishonorable intentions toward me,” Cady rolled her eyes at the euphemism, “I think I would’ve figured it out by now.” Cady came around desk toward her father, holding the manila envelope in both hands. “Now, I’m only going to give you this if you promise me one thing.”

“Oh, so I have to cut a deal to get your help now?”

“You do if you really think you’re going to lose this civil suit.” Walt looked at the envelope, then back at Cady, with the same disappointment and anger as when he had found a pack of cigarettes under her mattress when she was 15. “Promise me you’ll never, ever, tell me to quit my job again. Not this job, not the next job, not any job I think is worth my time and effort, no matter who I work for. I deserve that much respect.” Cady waited for his grudging acknowledgement, then placed the envelope in his hands. Walt put his hat on and left without another word, slamming the front door on the way out to his aging Bronco.

Cady pressed the heels of her hands in to her eyes and sighed, glad to be done with that unexpectedly intense conversation. She noticed that her father’s noisy exit had knocked the rifle off-center slightly. She righted it, then ran the backs of her fingers over the brass nail-heads that ornamented the stock. Was there something in what Walt had said, she wondered? That the rifle wasn’t just a vote of confidence, but also some tacit declaration of Jacob’s heart? She found the idea ridiculous on its face. _Times change_ , she thought, _but not Walt Longmire, ohhh no. That would be admitting defeat._

She saw a plume of plaster dust drift down in front of her as something in the ceiling creaked. Remembering suddenly that Sam was inspecting the roof, she went out to check on him before he inadvertently added a workman’s compensation claim to her case load.


	4. Crooked Timber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the tree where he married Martha, Walt visits with her spirit on a quiet night to talk through the possibility that he may lose the land beneath him, in which her ashes rest. More troubling than that, he may be losing their daughter to the very man whose evil influence Martha fought to keep from their community.

It was a warm night, for September in northern Wyoming. Walt loped up the hillside in the light of the moon, to the place where he had spread Martha’s ashes and sworn vengeance against Nighthorse for her murder. The ashes had sunk into the soil, nourishing the grass in this spot. He sometimes saw the swath of green contrasted with the yellow of the field as he gazed out over the valley in the mornings, a reminder both of his wife’s presence, and her absence.

An owl hooted in the distance as he sat at the crest of the hill. Walt supposed that was as good a greeting as any he could expect from Martha’s spirit, so he took off his hat and laid it face-up on the grass.

“Hey, babe. I sure miss you tonight. I guess you heard, it was Barlow Connally hired that guy in Denver, not Nighthorse after all.” He felt a bit silly talking to his wife’s ghost, but it was the best way he could think to unburden his heart, since the distance between himself and Henry only seemed to grow with time. “Barlow’s lawyer, he says he wants all this land for some golf course, so I really have to win this case. Just hoping you could be there with me tomorrow, keep me from saying the wrong things. I always could breathe easier with you around.” The wind tousled his hair and his eyes filled with tears, remembering his wife’s hands.

“I wanted you to know you’re still right about Nighthorse, though. He’s brought nothing but trouble to this county, and I… I can’t seem to stop it.” Walt’s voice cracked as he wept over the death and sickness he had seen come from the recent heroin epidemic in Absaroka and on the Cheyenne reservation, an epidemic he was still convinced had its root in Jacob Nighthorse’s mob connections. “Henry’s been trying, you know, he’s been acting as the new Hector, which I don’t much like, but I can’t say I blame him. Just wish he’d told me.”

He wiped the tears from his eyes and pressed them into the grass beside him. “I know when I took this job you said wasn’t anyone gonna trust me like they used to, but it’s hard, Martha. It’s so hard.” Walt gazed up at the moon and sobbed silently for a moment. “Hardest thing ain’t Henry, though. It’s that our girl, our Cady, well, she’s mixed up in this somehow and — and I just don’t know how she could forget you like that. Forget what you always told her about how no good could come from bad, makin’ a silk purse out of a sow’s ear and all. I know you and she always saw the good in people, and I love you both for that. But Nighthorse… I just know there’s no good in him, I can see it in his eyes, how he never tells the truth to me; he’s a snake, Martha. He’s got his goddamn hooks in her somehow, and I don’t know how to get her out of it.” Walt contemplated begging her pardon for his rough language, but he figured spirits must’ve seen and heard just about everything.

“So I don’t know what you’d tell me to do about this. It’d be easier if she was with someone who was a drunk, or stepped out on her, ‘cause then I could just show her and she’d know what’s right. But that’s what Nighthorse does to people, he stops them from seeing what’s right anymore, even when it’s clear as day in front of their faces. She’s so blinded by his money, and this idea that she can make life better on the rez, well. Lot of people trying to make it better, I don’t know why she thinks she’s the one has to save ‘em.”

Walt heard Martha’s voice in the wind, and in his heart. _She’s her father’s daughter. You always did have that saving-people thing, Walt._ “Yeah, I guess that’s true. I just wish you could tell me what to do about Nighthorse. Man doesn’t have an honorable bone in his body, now he’s… I don’t know what.” He found the concept difficult to express without resorting to vulgarities. “Got designs on her, I guess.” Walt heard Martha’s silvery laughter in the susurration of the grasses. _Designs! Why Walt, you make it sound like something out of Jane Austen._ Walt and Martha had bonded over _Pride and Prejudice_ in college when she had discovered that the taciturn football player had four younger sisters, and rather identified himself with the put-upon Mr. Bennett.

“That’s exactly what it is, Martha. Nighthorse is just like George Wickham; a gambler, a liar, and a scoundrel, who’s leading our daughter into temptation and ruin. And I’m gonna put a stop to it before it’s too late.” Walt got up abruptly from the hill, picking up his hat and dusting off the back of his trousers. Feeling like he shouldn’t just walk off without saying goodbye, he turned around to see an owl had taken up residence in the dying cottonwood that spread its branches over the hilltop. He closed his eyes and addressed himself to the spirit of his dead wife. “Guess I got a lot to think about, so. Goodnight. And I love you… always will. With all my heart.” Walt pressed his hat back on his head, tipping the brim in salute to the lonely owl, and walked back down the hill towards home.


	5. Volenti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Advice from an unlikely quarter leads David Milgrom to up-end his legal strategy on Walt's civil suit, but his client finds the result distasteful.

Dave Milgrom stared into the mirror in the men’s room of the Sheridan, Wyoming courthouse, fidgeting with his tie. Today was the third, and, dear God, he hoped the last, day of Walt Longmire’s civil trial to determine if he was responsible for the wrongful death of Barlow Connally. He fought the impulse to wash his hands again just to avoid going back into the courtroom, where his irascible client sat. Milgrom knew that Walt was looking forward to today’s slate of witnesses even less than he himself was. At least the last one on that list was Ruby, the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department’s gracious and down-to-earth receptionist. She couldn’t do too much damage.

Exiting the safety of the men’s room and heading for the court, he heard his name echo down the linoleum hallway. “Mr. Milgrom, good to see you again.” He knew that voice, and it didn’t inspire him with confidence. He turned around to greet Jacob Nighthorse, hoping the casino owner wouldn’t take this chance to rake him over the coals for his client’s bad behavior. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk more at the deposition. There was so much drama, I didn’t get the chance to give you my card,” Jacob said, pulling a plain white business card from his suit pocket. “People in my line of work are always looking for another good lawyer, just in case.”

“Uh, thanks.” Milgrom turned toward the courtroom doors, awkwardly shifting his weight back and forth as he reached for the proffered business card.

“I hope you don’t mind, it comes with a bit of free advice.” Jacob opened the courtroom door for the lawyer, who walked through and headed for the right-hand aisle, towards the defense table.

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” _Here it comes,_ he thought. _The zinger._ He’d met Jacob Nighthorse’s sort before - successful minority businessmen who thought their personal enrichment was striking a blow against racial injustice, and who never passed up an opportunity to tell whoever represented the white guy - in this case, himself - that they were on the wrong side of history.

“Read it and find out,” Jacob said, and moved through the crowd of spectators, journalists, and business associates, towards the prosecution’s witness bench.

Milgrom glanced at the card and flipped it over, straining to read the neat handwritten script on the back. _Volenti non fit injuria_. He was familiar with the phrase - what personal injury lawyer was not? Literally, “no injury is willing,” but in its legal usage, more like “if you consented to the risk, any harm is on you.” He rattled the card between his fingers, looking back towards Nighthorse, who, ever the community leader, was busy chatting with a Native family. Longmire had opposed the same casino that had brought some measure of wealth and prestige to the Cheyenne reservation, and not a few people were here to see the Sheriff get his comeuppance. The civil trial had taken on the dimensions of a referendum on Walt’s character, and the longer it went on, the more Milgrom had to confront the fact that his client had pissed off a number of his constituents. Especially the powerful ones. He had no doubt that the note on Nighthorse’s card was nothing more than a jab at his confidence, an erudite “I told you so.”

He saw Walt’s daughter Cady in the first row of seats behind the defense’s desk, her long red hair unmistakeable in the crowd. He was surprised to see her here; he’d heard they weren’t getting along lately, and he knew that Cady was running the legal aid office on the rez that Nighthorse funded. And now she was here to see her boss, who Milgrom assumed she respected, excoriate her father, who, for all his faults, she loved unconditionally. Well, if people wanted to pass their Friday mornings engaging in a bit of light self-torture, who was he to object? Cady was a consenting adult. A consenting adult in a sleeveless top that was a little sheer for the courtroom, Milgrom thought, but the beginning of fall in Wyoming was always unpredictable weather. Right now they were enjoying something he would’ve called an Indian summer back in New York. Here, surrounded as he was by real, live Indians on a regular basis, he was wary of making a political misstep.

Milgrom settled into his chair next to Walt. Still irked by Jacob’s “free advice,” he leaned back and waved to get Cady’s attention, speaking _sotto voce_. “Hey, is there any reason your boss over there would want to remind me about assumption of risk? You know, _volenti non fit injuria_ , that kinda thing?”

Cady looked up from her phone and leaned forward, shaking her head thoughtfully. “No, but he’s not above trash-talking the opposition. Maybe he meant you should’ve settled while you had the chance? Picked the wrong team going in, so you deserve whatever you get? I don’t know, I find him pretty inscrutable most of the time, to be honest.” Cady glanced across the aisle toward the prosecution team, where she saw Jacob’s stern profile. If he felt her eyes on him in that moment, he showed no sign.

______________________________

Tucker Baggett’s questions were drawing to a close, weaving the litany of Walt’s transgressions against Jacob Nighthorse into an unflattering portrait of the Sheriff as a violent, backward-thinking racist, an opponent of both economic and social progress, and a provincial relic willing to bend the law to benefit those close to him, or to use it as a hammer to beat into submission those he disapproved of. Milgrom had tired of Baggett’s old-school courtroom grandstanding before the pre-trial depositions were over, and at this point his only amusement was keeping tabs on his own volatile client to make sure he didn’t say or do anything impulsive that would scuttle his case.

“So, Mr. Nighthorse, in your experience, Walt Longmire is an unpredictable, violent, and delusional man, given to making false accusations based on nothing more than racial bias and resentment towards the modern world?” Baggett seemed to enjoy these florid descriptions more than anyone else in the courtroom, including the jury.

“I’d say that’s accurate.”

“And do you believe that such a man would be capable of shooting, in cold blood, someone he knew to be unarmed, but who he delusionally believed to be guilty of a heinous crime?”

Nighthorse paused, shooting a pointed glance at David Milgrom before continuing in clipped, patient tones. “Yes, I do. Which is why only a great fool would go to meet Sheriff Longmire unarmed. Or someone with a death wish.”

Behind him, Milgrom vaguely heard Cady’s sharp intake of breath and a frantic scribbling of pen on paper.

Baggett continued, disliking the turn Jacob’s testimony had taken. “That’s your opinion, is it? You’re speculatin’ a bit there?”

“Not just my opinion, but also my practice. I am never knowingly unarmed around that man, and if I were, it would only be because I believed a greater purpose could be achieved by my death at his hands.”

Milgrom felt something tugging at his sleeve, and turned to see Cady trying to pass him a note, eyes shining with trepidation and hope. There in uneven blue ball-point ink were disjointed words that somehow made sense of both what was unfolding in front of him between Nighthorse and Baggett, and Nighthorse’s unsolicited legal advice to him earlier.

_Dad is the risk Barlow consented to —_ _Barlow_ _volens_ _!_

Not perfect Latin, but Milgrom got the gist, continuing to assemble his thoughts while Baggett’s drawl droned on in the background. “Your honor, I must raise an objection, and respectfully ask that the jury disregard Mr. Nighthorse’s speculative remarks.”

Judge Mayhew, who was, in general, favorably disposed towards the prosecution, was having none of this. “Overruled. Mr. Baggett, you asked the witness what he believed to be true about an imaginary man with some very bad qualities, and he’s telling you about his concrete actions. I’d say if anyone up here’s speculatin’, it’s you.” Scattered laughter echoed around the courtroom.

“No further questions, your honor.”

David Milgrom looked lost in thought, tapping Cady’s folded note against his lower lip.

The judge’s impatient voice piped up after a brief lull. “Your witness, Mr. Milgrom. Would you like to cross-examine, or not?”

Milgrom’s attention snapped back to the present. “Yes! Yes, your honor, my apologies, I would like to cross-examine.”

“Then proceed.”

“Thank you, your honor.” He stood in front of the witness stand, taking the measure of Jacob Nighthorse. Nighthorse stared back, implacable, as if daring Milgrom to test Cady’s theory about what his note meant. If she was right, then maybe - just maybe - he could snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. If her theory was wrong, of course, this would all blow up in his face, but at this point, how much worse could it get? He rocked back and forth on his heels one last time, and then dove into the inscrutable deep end.

“Mr. Nighthorse, are you familiar with the phrase, _volenti non fit injuria_?”

“My Latin’s pretty rusty these days, counselor.” He knew. He had to know. Why else was he letting Milgrom drive the cross-examination exactly where he wanted it to go? _Guy coulda been editor of the Harvard Law Review, he’s here running a tribal casino. Probably making five times what I make._ As the counsel for the defense paced out his argument, he noticed Cady’s intense focus on the witness, stock-still in her chair, a rosy blush high on her cheeks. Could be nothing, could be the kid was just highly-strung. He filed the information away for later and plodded onward in his cross-examination.

_________________________

With a bang of the gavel, the courtroom was dismissed for a two-hour lunch recess. Dave Milgrom sighed in exhaustion, and gave Cady a knowing look, which she returned with a hopeful smile. He strutted back to his client, who glowered behind the defense table. “Well, Sheriff, I think I just saved your proverbial hide. No, don’t thank me, I do it all for the love of my adoring public.”

Walt glared at his lawyer. “You let Jacob Nighthorse rake my name through the mud. If I’m really who you all made me out to be up there, hell, _I’d_ shoot me.”

“I’m your lawyer, Walt, not your public relations manager.” Milgrom leaned against the desk and reached for his briefcase. “Besides, that was the point. To make the jury believe that you’re such a scary dude that Barlow would’ve been an idiot to wave a gun around in front of you if he wasn’t prepared to use it. And if he wasn’t an idiot, as you may have gleaned from the previous two days of testimony by everyone from his brother to his fourth-grade English teacher, then it had to be suicide-by-cop.”

“Where’d you get that bright idea? I thought Plan B was gonna be the truth.” Dave had to admit that Walt wasn’t wrong about the sudden shift in strategy.

“If you must know, you got a pretty smart kid over there, she actually figured it out before I did. And I know you’re not gonna buy this, but Nighthorse? He might’ve just won you this case. Or, you know, helped you avoid losing it too badly. So maybe don’t be so hard on him, huh?” Milgrom walked off to let Walt stew for a while.

In the hallway, he made a bee-line for Nighthorse, who was chatting with one of Baggett’s assistants at the edge of the dispersing crowd. “Hey, wow, with enemies like you, who needs friends, right?” Jacob didn’t so much laugh at this as tense his jaw and look vaguely embarrassed on Milgrom’s behalf. “Thanks for that little piece of advice earlier, I think it really turned the tide.” Nighthorse looked distracted, like he was waiting for Milgrom to get to the point. “I wouldn’t usually say this to someone who just called my client a crazy racist shitheel, but, uh… you’re a real mensch.” He extended his hand, which Nighthorse shook with more than perfunctory firmness.

“Thank you, I understand that is a great honor among your people.”

“My people?” the lawyer inquired, raising his eyebrows just a touch.

“Brooklynites.” Milgrom thought Jacob might have winked in that moment if he had been a winking sort of man. “Honestly, I’m glad I could help. These are people I have to live with, and do business with, on a daily basis. It’s important to me to keep the peace.” The crowd had cleared enough that Dave could now hear strains of Cady’s voice at the other end of the hallway, and the clack of her boots pacing across the courthouse floor. “On that topic, how do you think your client is handling all this?”

“The Sheriff? Eh, he’s not gonna ask you to marry his daughter anytime soon, but…” Milgrom shrugged.

“Pity.” Nighthorse’s response was just audible. Catching sight of Cady approaching, he absently smoothed his tie.

Cady looked bemusedly at the pair of men in their crisp, expensive suits. “Hey guys, am I too late to get in on Secret Legal Team Longmire’s lunch plans?”

“No, I hadn’t really - I was going to wait for your dad, see if I can get him to go out the door with less reporters this time.” Milgrom’s tone betrayed his frustration with Walt’s occasional ignorance of practical matters, like avoiding the press. “But you guys go ahead, I mean, there’s nothing really to stick around now for except Ruby, who doesn’t really fit the new narrative, now that I think about it, and then summations, which might be… weird.” He moved towards the courtroom doors, intending to go back in and try to cheer his client up with the prospect of lunch.

“Okay, well, good luck with that. Text me if you need anything. Thanks again for the ride, by the way, I just talked to Mandy. She still has my car at the printer’s in Casper, getting the new training booklets made up.” 

“Hey, no problem, anytime,” Milgrom responded, heading back into the courtroom.

Jacob looked like he was also ready to disband their circle. “I was just going to stop for lunch on the way back to the office, Cady, if you’d rather head back now. It’s no trouble for me to drop you at the legal aid center. Unless you’d like to stay and see how the intrepid Mr. Milgrom weaves together his fascinating new strategy.” Cady thought he sounded tempted by this option himself, but she was both hungry, and well aware of the backlog of work that piled up on the rez every hour that she spent here, babysitting her father’s civil suit.

“No, no, if you’re going now, that would be great.” She still wasn’t fully used to Jacob being so accommodating, but remembering their previous conversation about labor law, she decided she’d take what she could get. She saw Ruby walking towards them, and waved hello.

“Hey you two, is Walt still in there?”

“Yeah, I think so. Court’s in recess for another hour and forty-five minutes, but if you can find Dave Milgrom you should definitely talk to him.”

“Alright. Oh, there’s your dad,” Ruby noticed Walt emerge from the courtroom, lawyer in tow.

Cady felt the vague warmth of Jacob’s hand at the middle of her back, guiding her down the hallway through the diffuse crowd that lingered in the courthouse. She was about to ask him a question when she heard her father’s booming voice behind her.

“Nighthorse!” Cady turned to see Walt’s hand grab Nighthorse’s shoulder. “Get your hands off my daughter, you _filthy-minded half-breed._ ” His voice descended into a confidential growl, and even as David Milgrom and several shocked onlookers tried to restrain him, he raised a fist clearly intended for Nighthorse’s jaw.

Reacting by instinct, Cady threw herself between the two men and put a hand on her father’s chest, yelling for him to stop.This seemed to shake Walt out of his single-minded pursuit of violence, for the moment.

Ruby, emerging from the sidelines, looked absolutely livid. “Walter Longmire!” She paused to scoop his hat from the floor, where it had fallen during the scuffle. “ _Language._ ” Walt took his hat from Ruby, but did not look particularly chastened.

Cady, frightened but self-righteous, looked her father in the eye, her voice low and certain. “Dad, I don’t care what you think is going on, but this is not the way to handle it. I don’t even recognize you right now.” Turning to leave, she saw that Jacob was ready to launch into the vicious retort she was sure her father deserved. She raised a hand and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, her expression silently begging him not to make an already bad situation worse.

She sighed with relief when it was clear that he was going to take the high ground. “Good day, Sheriff. Ruby.” Nighthorse walked behind Cady at a short distance until they passed through to the lobby where, behind the glare of the smoked-glass doors, Walt could see them pause in conversation.


	6. Etudes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the way back from court, lunch is ordered and questions are asked.

Jacob opened the trunk of his car, laying his jacket and tie on top of several bankers' boxes. He held out his hand for Cady’s purse and placed it beside them, then shut the trunk gently, tiny motors whirring it into place. “I think we both have work to get back to, so I’d like to pick something up rather than going somewhere to sit. Much as I would enjoy a languid, two-hour lunch _al fresco_ in the last of this good weather.”

“Yeah, that’s not really my life right now either,” Cady said, opening the passenger door and sliding into the leather interior. “I’m not starving or anything, I can wait ’til I get back to the office.” Heated by the sun, the inside of the car was blessedly warm after the chill of the air-conditioned courtroom.

Jacob turned the key in the ignition and started to pull out of the courthouse’s parking lot. “Why don’t you give Henry a call at the Red Pony while I get us back to the highway?”

“Sure. Oh, my phone is in my purse, could you pop the trunk?”

Almost without looking, he pushed a button on the dashboard monitor and Cady heard the familiar double tone. “Siri, call Henry Standing Bear at work.” Cady tried to remain unimpressed, but deep down she found it rather endearing when people showed off for her benefit.

The almost-natural voice of the machine replied. “ _Calling Henry Standing Bear…”_

After two rings, Henry’s lilting baritone filled the car. “It is a beautiful day at the Red Pony and continual soirée.”

Cady piped up. “Hi Henry.”

“Cady, it is good to hear your voice, how did the trial go today?”

“Ah… the actual testimony went better than I expected.” She glanced nervously at Jacob, whose eyes were invisible behind dark sunglasses.

“Okay…”

“I’ll tell you about it later, listen, I’m on my way back from court and I wanted to order some lunch to go. We’re just getting on the road now, so…What do you think, an hour?”

“You are at the courthouse in Sheridan? An hour is optimistic.” She could hear the clamor of the lunch rush behind his voice. He was probably right, but she didn’t want to argue.

“Well, anyway, can I get a Cobb salad with kale instead of romaine?”

“That will be two dollars extra, and if you ask for gluten-free croutons, you will not be able to afford it.”

“I know, Henry. Very funny.” Cady rolled her eyes at Henry’s curmudgeonly distaste for “fashionable” food.

“Thank you. Anything else?”

“Yeah, um…” Cady looked at Jacob, wishing she had asked him earlier what he wanted. Why did she feel the need to hide who was driving her back to town? Jacob was her boss, this was perfectly normal, no matter what irrational jealousies it provoked in her father. 

“Standing Bear, it’s Jacob. Can I have the usual, please, rare, and a side salad with vinaigrette.”

She could almost hear Henry’s eyebrows raise in the short pause, dreading his inevitable questions, dreading explaining her father’s outburst after the trial. “Very good. It will be ready when you get here.”

“Bye, Henry,” Cady said, still anxious to maintain control of the conversation.

“I will see you soon, Cady.” The phone beeped its disconnection.

“A side salad?” Cady mockingly remarked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Well, as the poet said, you make me want to be a better man.” In his deadpan voice, Cady could rarely tell how much, if anything, could be taken at face value. The steering wheel slid smoothly under Jacob’s grip as he made the turn for the highway on-ramp.

Cady scoffed gently. “Is that your Jack Nicholson impression? It’s terrible.” She saw Jacob’s quiet smile from the corner of her eye. They drove on in silence for a long moment, until Jacob’s voice cut carefully through her stray thoughts.

“Do you think Henry is as worried about your dad as you are?”

She sighed and shook her head slowly. She wanted to put all this as far from her mind as possible, although she knew avoiding the problem wouldn’t fix anything. For all that she trusted Jacob, she still wasn’t sure how much she should discuss with him about Walt’s state of mind. “After what happened today? I haven’t been this worried about him since the day he got Mom's ashes back from the coroner. That was… he was totally out of line, Jacob, I am so sorry he came at you like that. He would've deserved anything you said to him at that point, I just... thank you for showing restraint.”

“Believe me, in the pantheon of crimes Walt has falsely accused me of committing, putting the moves on his only daughter doesn’t even make the top ten.” Jacob merged into the passing lane to get around an eighteen-wheeler. “I’m sorry if it was hard for you to hear the things I said about him in my testimony. They certainly weren’t easy for me to say, with you sitting right there in my line of sight.”

“Yeah.” Cady gave another resigned sigh. “Sorta the point.” She thought Jacob, of all people, would understand the need to control perceptions in order to accomplish something good. Maybe it was different when they were his own perceptions.

“Hmm.” Another long moment passed. Cady watched the clusters of traffic around them condense and dissolve in the afternoon heat. “As your employer, I’m not asking you this question, but I do wonder sometimes if there is a family history of paranoid schizophrenia on his side. Speaking as someone with my own… genetic misfortunes, I can tell you, Cady, it’s better to know sooner than to be ignorant until it’s too late.”

“Thanks.” She looked down at her hands twisting slowly in her lap. “I’ll give it some thought.” Cady felt deep sorrow at the suggestion that her father’s sharp, deliberate mind might be disintegrating before her very eyes. She couldn’t think of any Longmire relative who had suffered from mental illness, or even dementia. _Rude health_ , her grandfather, Poppy, used to say. _The rude part comes from eatin’ so many beans_ , his wife, Nanna, would inevitably finish. She smiled a little at the memory.

Jacob pushed a few buttons on the dashboard console and scrolled absently through a list until he selected something Cady couldn’t quite make out through the glare on the screen. Soft, stately piano chords piped through the car’s speakers.

“What is this piece? I know this from somewhere.”

“Satie, one of the _Gnossiennes_. If you’d rather listen to something else…” Jacob’s hand strayed toward the console screen.

“No, this is perfect.” Cady stared out the window in silence, troubled and yet somehow content, drifting in the sea of sky and high plains scrub.


	7. Strategy Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cady invites Henry over for pancakes and news of the civil suit.

Henry carefully balanced the last layer on the tower of pancakes before letting Cady carry it to the dining table, and shut off the gas burner. Following her with a pot of coffee, he decided to settle a matter that had been needling him since last they spoke. “I was surprised that Jacob was the one to pick up your lunch order, he does not usually come in to the Red Pony.”

“Really? Then what’s ‘the usual’?” Cady asked, stretching out the last word with a flourish.

“In Jacob’s case, it is a burger with sharp white cheddar and sautéed mushrooms. It is generally delivered to his office at the casino.”

“That sounds pretty good, actually, how come he never comes in?”

“I do not know, perhaps he does not like the décor.” Henry poured a judicious amount of syrup on his pancakes, and twisted the cap back on the bottle. “Now, tell me what you could not tell me earlier about the trial.”

Cady stalled with a sip of coffee, then took a deep breath. “Well, apparently Jacob said something to Dad’s lawyer that completely changed his defense strategy, in a good way, so that now I’m pretty sure the jury will think Barlow was at least 50% responsible for his own death, if not more, which means Connally Enterprises’ claim is invalid, and Dad goes back to being sheriff.” Cady took a bite of warm, buttery pancake, hoping that her breakfast would not be cold by the time she got to the end of the story.

“That is good.” Henry looked at her expectantly over his coffee mug.

Cady stared at her plate, composing her next sentence, trying to keep the same cheer in her voice. “And then afterwards, in the hallway, Jacob offered me a ride back to the rez,” here she took another deep, preparatory breath, “and Dad tried to hit him.”

“Jacob Nighthorse? Your father attacked Jacob Nighthorse at his own trial.” Henry still sounded suspicious, as if Cady could not possibly have seen what she had seen.

“I know, I couldn’t believe it either, I thought he was gonna hit _me_ for a second. It was… bad, Henry, I don’t know what’s going on with him these days. I’m really worried about him, more than I ever was after Mom died. Of course, if anyone had told me he was chasing down homicidal meth-heads at the time, I might have been this worried then, too.” She gave Henry a pointed look, took an emphatic bite of pancake, and washed it down with some coffee while Henry remained in thoughtful silence.

When he had drunk enough coffee to formulate a new line of reasoning, he probed further. “How, exactly, did Jacob offer you this ride?”

Less than charmed by Henry’s new-found Sherlockian coldness, Cady closed her eyes and tried to call the scene to mind. “He said… no, first David Milgrom said the press was gathering by the main entrance, and he was going to try to get my dad to go out a different door, then I said, oh, Mandy still has my car for some legal aid stuff, and Jacob said he could drop me off unless I wanted to stay for closing arguments, I think he put his hand on my shoulder or something-“

“Or something?” Henry pounced on the uncertain language.

Cady’s eyes popped open and she gave Henry a look of shocked dismay. “Wow, Henry, just - no. No, we are not doing this. You do not get to blame the victim here for mysteriously provoking my dad. Not even when it’s Jacob Nighthorse, who you and I both know, knows _exactly_ how to provoke my dad. This was one hundred percent pure Walt Longmire anger issues.” Cady stabbed a piece of pancake with her fork.

“I am sorry. You are right, of course.” Unable to suppress his bartending habits, he rose to pour them both another cup of coffee. “Did your father and Nighthorse exchange words, or was it a purely physical altercation?”

Cady waited for Henry to sit back down before recounting this, her least favorite part of the story. It had been running through her head for the past day, and every time she thought about it, she felt queasy. It was hard to see the ugliness of anyone’s inner demons, much harder when those demons belonged to someone you loved. Her reluctant voice was so quiet, Henry leaned forward imperceptibly to hear her better. “Dad said, ‘get your hands off my daughter, you filthy-minded… so and so.”

“Your French is excused, Cady. I have heard Walt say nearly every curse word in at least three languages.” Henry gave Cady a bemused look, but the one she returned was full of deep shock.

“Half-breed.” Cady’s mouth moved uncomfortably, as if her distaste for the word was literal. “That’s what he called Jacob Nighthorse, to his face. He used a racial slur that I know he despises, and he did it in front of me, and his own lawyer and, God, probably reporters. Oh, and poor Ruby, who looked like she was going to wash his mouth out with soap right there in the courthouse.” Cady wrapped her hands around her coffee mug and stared into its depths.

Henry was stunned, unable to accept this new information about the man who had been his best friend for 38 years. “Are you sure it was not some other colorful term that was poorly pronounced? Bastard, perhaps?”

“I know what I heard, Henry.”

He leaned back in his chair, contemplating. “I take it Jacob’s testimony in court was not flattering to your father.”

Cady absently picked at the remains of her breakfast. “Ironically enough, he described my dad as a deranged, out-of-control racist.” She gave a resigned, sardonic laugh. “Which, at the time, I thought was blowing things way out of proportion, but… apparently not so much.”

Henry placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for telling me this, Cady. I know it was not easy for you. I am sorry that your father chose to say such an ugly thing in public. As you know, sometimes when we are angry, we say things that we do not mean, and that we later regret.”

Cady trembled, and for a moment Henry thought she was crying, but when she turned to look at him, he discovered the beginnings of laughter instead. “Wow, Henry, you know I love you, but that was some patronizing B.S. right there.”

Chastened, Henry hung his head in exaggerated guilt. “You are right. Again. In my own defense, I am improvising here. I have never had to talk to a young person about the fact that their parent may be secretly racist until now.” He served both Cady and himself another pancake from the still-towering pile on the platter in front of them, and reached for the maple syrup.

She stared at the pancake as if at an injured bird, unsure how to help. “Is he losing his mind, Henry?”

Henry gave Cady a skeptical sidelong glance. “Is his hatred for Jacob Nighthorse pathological? That is a distinct possibility.”

“Didn’t Dad get in a bar fight at the Red Pony, like, a month ago?”

“Where are you going with this line of questioning, counselor?”

“He’s so angry all the time, I hear it every time I talk to him. He can hardly stand to see me anymore because it reminds him of how I’m supposedly conspiring against him with Nighthorse by trying to use the casino’s profit to actually help people in need. When he dropped off some paperwork to the legal aid center the other day, he was barely holding it together.” Henry wondered if he should inquire into the nature of said paperwork, but decided against it. “He saw that rifle Jacob gave me, and he just got really, I don’t know, riled by it.”

“It is likely that he blames himself for being unable to protect you from what happened with JP Wright. He knows what it is like to kill a man. It is an act your father does not take lightly, and that is something I have always admired about him.”

Cady appreciated Henry’s calm presence, platitudes and all. She took comfort in the fact that, no matter what Walt did, he would always have Henry in his corner. She decided not to go into detail about some of the more tawdry insinuations Walt had voiced when he last visited her office. “So, what are we gonna do?”

“I do not know. If he loses the civil suit, I fear things will get worse. If he does not, it will reinforce his own stubborn self-righteousness. Perhaps if he was required to seek counseling as a condition of being reinstated to the office of Sheriff, he would see its relevance to his situation.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to figure out how to make that happen.” She looked at her untouched second helping. “Why are there always so many pancakes, Henry?”

Henry stood up to remove their leftovers to the kitchen. “That is one of the great mysteries of life which I cannot answer for you. You must find the answer for yourself. Much like why you did not come inside to see me yesterday at the Red Pony.” He had not forgotten Cady’s casual evasion of his earlier non-question.

“I was asleep in the car, I fell asleep on the way back from the courthouse. Why didn’t you ask Jacob? He would’ve told you.” Cady stacked the plates on one arm, trying to preserve her novice waitressing skills, and reached for the nearly-empty coffee pot as one of their forks slid to the floor at her feet.

“Great.” Henry was peering into the cabinet that held Cady’s jumbled collection of plastic containers.

“What, nothing big enough?” Cady scraped the unwanted pancake detritus into the trash can and moved to rinse their plates in the sink.

“It is not that. Unbeknownst to me, my goddaughter has slept with the sworn enemy of my best friend, who is about to lose his position as captain of the guard because he killed a man who murdered his wife for political gain, which murder has now driven him mad with grief. My life has become an episode of Game of Thrones.” Cady’s raucous, cathartic laughter was more than Henry’s wit deserved, but he was glad it dispelled their mutual worries.

When she could finally breathe evenly, she repaid Henry’s remark with the fast end of a damp dish towel. “You know nothing, Henry Standing Bear.”


	8. The Gift of Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of a late night at the legal aid center, Cady has the opportunity to clear up some history between herself and Jacob Nighthorse.

After hours, the legal aid office, such as it was, took on the chill of the desert evening. Cady wrapped her scarf around her like a shawl as she typed at her laptop.

_Dear Commissioner Bellamy and colleagues,_

_I am writing to you today out of concern for the well-being of Sheriff Walt Longmire, my father. However, I am not writing in a personal capacity, but as a concerned voter and a lifelong resident of Absaroka County. I am deeply grateful for your forbearance in the matter of Sheriff Longmire’s civil suit. I know he was proud that you stood by him and supported his continued tenure in office while some in the community did not._

_As you know, first responders like Sheriff Longmire experience traumatic events at a much higher rate than the general population. Police officers, firefighters, and emergency medical staff in many jurisdictions are required to receive post-event counseling as a matter of course when they encounter death on the job._

A sudden banging on the windowpane startled her out of her composition. In the dim light that reached outside the office, she saw Jacob Nighthorse giving her a stern look and pointing at his watch. “Go home, Cady, it’s 10:30.” His voice was slightly muted by the glass. Unwilling to have a conversation through the window, she walked towards the front door of the house, hoping Nighthorse would take the hint. Sure enough, when she opened the door, there he was in the darkness of the porch.

She stepped aside with an inviting gesture. “If I knew you were coming, I’d’ve baked a cake.” She remembered her mother using the same phrase, on occasion, to greet unexpected and not-quite-wanted visitors. 

Jacob gazed appreciatively around the living room of the house, which had been transformed into the framework of a legal office. Desks, chairs, filing cabinets, and a little seating area now occupied the hardwood floor Cady herself had installed. “I was on my way back from a tribal council meeting, I saw there was a light on in here. You’ve only been working here for a few months, do you and I already need to have a talk about the high risk of burnout in the non-profit sector?”

 _Pretty sure that was sarcasm,_ Cady thought to herself. “No, I just wanted to catch up on some stuff. Sam’s been working on the roof pretty much anytime I’m in the office, kinda makes it hard to hear myself think. He’s been really great, by the way, you were absolutely right about him.”

“How’s the rest of the staff working out? I hope my… political appointees aren’t making any trouble for you.” Cady followed Jacob back into her office, shutting her laptop.

“No, they’ve all been fine. Training’s been an interesting process, but I’m using some materials from the Legal Aid Society, so it’s not like I’m reinventing the wheel. I mean, people do this all the time, start legal aid practices. I’ve assigned each of the new people to liaise with a different institution or category of institutions, you know, schools, tribal police, social services, that kind of thing. That way, they can start with where they feel most comfortable, and learn from there.” She wasn’t quite ready for the impromptu site visit that this had become, but at least Jacob didn’t look bored.

“Sounds like you’ll have outgrown this place pretty soon.” He ran his fingers over one of the many piles of paperwork that had taken over the surfaces in Cady’s office.

“Well, I have the new hires working from home two days out of five, which is hard because broadband on the rez isn’t that great, but they sort of rotate through here, we have some desks in one of the other rooms, too. We’ll make it work.” She smiled and shrugged her shoulders, hoping to convey plucky ingenuity in the face of scarce resources.

“I hear you about the infrastructure out here. It’s not ideal.” He watched as Cady gathered up her things and switched off her green-shaded desk lamp, throwing the office into semi-darkness. “I got some bad news for you, though.” In the half-light, Jacob’s profile suggested a crescent moon, the shadows exaggerating the length of his hair and goatee.

“Oh? Google Fiber not beating down your door to put Indian country at the top of their installation list?”

“Indeed, no. No, when I drove up I noticed your car has a flat tire. Looks like you drove over a roofing nail. You should tell Mr. Poteet to be more careful with his tools.”

Cady sighed and ran a hand over her eyes in frustration. “Exactly what I need today. Perfect.”She dropped her purse on the chair behind her and turned the desk lamp back on, then rummaged in her purse for her phone. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to stay or anything, I’m just gonna call AAA and have them come out and put the spare on.”

“It’ll take them half an hour to get out here from Durant, if you let me change it for you, you’d be on the road by then.”

Cady’s face did not hide her surprise at his suggestion. “Oh, no, Jacob, that’s really —” _sweet? Don’t say sweet._ “— very chivalrous of you to offer, but no, it’s fine. I’m sure it won’t take them that long.” She scrolled through her phone for the number. “Honestly, I’d do it myself, it’s just been such a long day.” Noticing that she had, as usual, no cell reception in her own office, she picked up the landline receiver.

“Then I hope you don’t mind if I stick around until they arrive. I’d sleep a lot better knowing you weren’t out here waiting for some stranger with a tire iron.”

Cady tried not to roll her eyes, wondering if the man had ever heard the phrase _licensed, bonded, and insured_ before. She was getting pretty tired of people’s solicitous, paternal attitudes towards her. Catching sight of the rifle on the wall of her office, however, she decided that Jacob’s recent protective turn might not be entirely unjustified. She took a deep breath and placed the receiver back in its cradle. “Well, if you’re going to insist on staying, then you might as well make yourself useful.” She gestured towards the door, following him out to where she was parked in front of the little house.

______________________

Jacob worked the way he spoke: deliberately, economically, and with an elegance that Cady found uncomfortably mesmerizing. She sat in a rickety wooden folding chair beside her gray Jeep with a blanket over her lap, obediently holding the flashlight as Jacob set the spare tire in place. Overhead, the expanse of stars bent across the sky anchored by an almost-full moon. Cady wasn’t sure what poorly-controlled impulse made her break the companionable silence.

“Hey, can I ask you an awkward question?” She saw something tense in him, and his movements slowed.

“That depends. Is it really the kind of question you should ask a man who’s on his knees in the dirt, doing you a favor in the middle of the night?” His tone made it plain that he thought few, if any questions fell into that category.

“Sorry, forget it.” She thought if she asked about the historical particulars of the antique rifle he had given her, she would be able to tell if there were extra layers of meaning to the object. She meant it innocently enough. She got the impression from his response that Jacob might see it as looking a gift horse in the mouth — or at least asking about its parentage.

Jacob completed the rest of the task in icy quiet, winding down the jack and turning the wrench with movements made more precise by anger. It was only when he had shut the rear door of her SUV and walked towards the house without a glance at Cady that she suddenly realized what he thought her question had been.

He was washing his hands in the kitchen when she came in. She pulled a clean dish towel from one of the drawers and waited for him to shut off the water before speaking. “You thought I was going to ask about the accident, before. Whether David Ridges was, what, acting under your orders? Jacob… I _never_ thought that.” He paused, examining Cady’s face for any sign of insincerity, any trace of a lie. He found nothing.

“It wasn’t an uncommon theory at the time. Branch thought it was likely enough.” He folded the damp cloth and hung it over the edge of the sink, turning back to Cady as he unrolled his shirt sleeves.

“Branch and I thought differently about a lot of things.”

“Glad to hear it.” He passed close by her in the kitchen doorway, retrieving his jacket from the back of an office chair. “Can I ask what convinced you of my innocence?”

“Just seemed kind of small-time for you. I mean, I know sometimes in politics you can’t be both effective _and_ clean,” Cady shrugged, “but you always struck me as more of the damaging-opposition-research type than the voter-intimidation type.” Even as she heard herself saying the words, she regretted the uncharitable description. “Wow, that really didn’t come out the way I meant. Sorry.”

Jacob looked nonplussed, but willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. “As affronts to my character go, that one at least has the virtue of being true.”

“Look, I really appreciate you taking care of me like this. You should let me buy you dinner sometime.” Cady wasn’t sure this tactic was the best way to get her awkward question answered, but at least she would feel like her accounts were settled. “Just to say thank you for everything.” She gestured at her car, but she hoped that Jacob knew her gratitude encompassed much more than that.

His thin smile seemed to dismiss the offer as a polite formality. “Tempting, but unnecessary. Besides, since I already pay your salary, it feels a bit circular.”

Cady crossed her arms and closed a bit of distance between them, unsatisfied with this outcome. “Fine, then I’ll _make_ you dinner. At least the labor value will be my own.” Jacob still looked skeptical. “Come on, I would never make risotto for anyone I suspected of interfering with democracy.” Guileless charm and persistence had always been her weapons of choice.

He let her statement hang in the air for a while, weighing her intentions, and perhaps his own. “You drive a hard bargain. How’s Sunday evening?” In the intimate shadows of the empty house, his deliberately-casual tone of voice was jarring to Cady’s ear.

“Great!” She hurried into her office to pick up her bag from behind the desk. When she emerged, Jacob was holding the door for her, whether out of chivalry or impatience, she couldn’t tell.

They departed to their separate cars. “Drive safe, Cady,” Jacob said, and she bid him goodnight with an offhand wave. She was momentarily blinded by the headlights of his sedan. He waited for her to pull out onto the dirt road, following at a distance until their paths split at the paved county highway.

Finding that she could breathe easier out of Jacob’s watchful gaze, Cady wondered what she had got herself into. She thought back on the suggestions her father and Henry had made lately — even if in jest — and wondered whether her intentions were entirely honorable after all.


	9. A New Boot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s just no talking to some people, but Henry had to try.

Walt was at the top of a ladder tacking the rain gutter more firmly onto the roof of his cabin when Henry drove up. Wouldn’t do to let it stay broken through another winter, and they were predicting this year would be worse than most.

“I have something for you,” Henry called up to him from the ground below. Walt could see that Henry was carrying a medium-sized cardboard box under his arm, and dangling a six-pack of Rainier from his other hand.

“Kinda busy right now, Henry. You can leave it on the porch.”

“I cannot do that, Walt. It is a gift.”

Irritated, but curious, Walt slung his hammer through a belt loop, descended the ladder and headed inside the house.

Henry followed, putting the box on the coffee table and handing the six-pack to Walt, who was retrieving two cans of the same from the fridge, and tossed one lightly to Henry. “I hear congratulations are in order about your case.”

“That your idea of a joke? I lost.” Walt plonked into the leather armchair, opening his beer and taking a long sip.

“Technically, perhaps. Cady told me that the damages are small enough that they will be entirely covered by the county’s insurance policy. Since you get to keep your house, and your job, I call it a win.” Henry sat on the couch opposite and raised his can in a toast to his friend.

“Anything else you wanted to say to me?”

“Yes.” _Many things_ , Henry thought to himself, _not all of which you are currently prepared to hear._ “I wanted to tell you that Hector has permanently retired. And that I wish the circumstances of my involvement with his… mythos… had been different. Going forward, I promise to invite you along for any vigilante actions I undertake.” Some barely-perceptible softening of Walt’s facial expression was all Henry was going to get out of that. “I also wanted to bring you something you need.” He leaned forward to open the cardboard box on the table between them, pulling out another box whose lid he tossed beside him on the couch.

Walt took another long drink of his beer and contemplated Henry’s gift. Resting in the box, in a curl of white tissue paper, was a brand new pair of tan Ariat ropers, size 11 1/2. Walt was unamused by the reference. “Ones I got on are fitting just fine.”

“You may think so, but I do not, and neither does Cady.”

“You talked to Cady?”

“We spoke on Saturday. She is very worried about you.”

“She’s worried about me? I’m not the one —” Walt stopped his rant in its tracks, running a hand over his jaw and draining the rest of his beer.

Henry thought about how best to address this topic, about which he had so little real information. “There is a hole in your beer. We should go sit on the porch while it is still warm enough to do so.” He took Walt’s empty can to the kitchen and got another from the fridge, picking up his own half-finished can on the way out to the front porch. Walt was sitting in one of the wooden chairs he had built, one heel propped against the railing. Henry sat astride the railing, leaning against one of the posts, and looked out at the gathering clouds to the north. “You suspect that Cady and Jacob Nighthorse are having an affair.”

“Neither of them’s married, so I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“But it is what you suspect.”

“Did you see that rifle he gave her? Pretty clear to me what’s going on.”

Henry furrowed his brow at this bit of amateur anthropology. “An extravagant gift, perhaps a bit dramatic, but that is in keeping with his character. And it did save her life.” Walt’s frown deepened. “In our grandparents’ day, the meaning of that gift would have been clear. But much has changed since then. Nighthorse seems dedicated to accelerating that change, not bringing the old ways back.”

“When it suits him.” Walt finished his second beer and set the crumpled can on the railing.

“That, I cannot argue with.” He wondered if he should try a different tack, or if this was simply a losing battle. “I was thinking the other day about that third summer we spent in Alaska. Do you remember, when I was finally promoted from roughneck?”

“Sure, I remember every damn mosquito bite.” This made Henry smile, bringing to mind the memory of a much-younger Walt spotted with calamine lotion, or occasionally toothpaste, to keep the itching at bay.

“I remember after my promotion was announced, one of our colleagues wrote ‘Red Scum’ on the wall above my bunk, embellished with quite an inept swastika, if I recall correctly.”

“Tate Petersen. Dirty lowlife.”

“Yes, and you went out and tracked him down, and gave him a piece of your mind. And then he and four of his friends locked you in the mess while they gave _me_ a piece of _their_ minds. And their fists.”

Walt looked away at the approaching clouds, then down at his hands, folded across his lap. “What’s your point, Henry?”

“When you stepped in to defend my honor, it made things worse, and that was when it was genuinely threatened. I do not believe Cady’s honor is in danger.” He leaned forward to catch Walt’s empty beer can before it was toppled by the rising breeze. “Branch Connally notwithstanding, I do not think her taste in men is dictated by who she thinks would piss you off the most.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Henry sighed in exasperation at his friend’s abject stubbornness. There really was no talking to some people, but he could only think of one last possible route to peace. “When I heard that losing your civil suit might mean this place was seized by Connally Enterprises, I was not worried. Do you know why?”

“‘Cause you’re an insufferable optimist?” With Walt, insults were usually a good first step.

“It is because there is a good chance that Cheyenne remains are buried somewhere on this land. Before it was bought for pasture by your maternal grandfather in 1930, it was the 160-acre allotment given to my twice-great uncle, Colby Smith, during the federal government’s attempt to assimilate the Cheyenne into the white world. If nothing else, it is possible that the Department of the Interior could have complicated the issue of ownership before Connally’s people could do anything.”

“Smith?” Walt looked suspicious about this explanation.

“Two Hawks. Smith was… for paper.” Even through the long Alaskan nights, the brutal physicality of the sun dance ritual they had performed when Cady was injured, and the years of friendship in between, he still felt as though part of his identity was obscured from Walt, and always would be. “Like it or not, your life, and the life of your family, are intertwined with the life of the tribe. Jacob Nighthorse is not the criminal mastermind you think he is, and he is not going anywhere. Right now, Cady needs you to trust her to handle herself around him. It is not an easy thing she is doing, and she needs your trust more than she needs your protection.”

Walt got up from his seat, taking the empty can from Henry’s hands. “Next time you give me a pair of boots, try not telling me how to raise my own daughter while you’re doing it.” Shutting the door behind him, he seemed to dismiss Henry’s pleas without a thought.

Henry descended the porch steps in the gathering wind. The sky had darkened, and he could smell rain in the distance.


	10. Unpave my Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In addition to being a decent lawyer, Cady makes an excellent risotto.

All week, a strange yet familiar image kept springing unbidden to Cady’s mind. It wasn’t the image so much as the feeling that disturbed her, that caught her unawares in the midst of copying paperwork or meeting with a particularly talkative client. When Cady was young, perhaps seven or so, her favorite toy had been a modular plastic marble track that she would build and re-build into Rube Goldberg devices of infinite complexity. Always different, but always incorporating the most intriguing and mysterious component in the set: the spiral vortex. She would watch each marble obsessively as, one by one, they circled the wide expanse of green plastic, veering closer and closer to their eventual fate, millimeter by millimeter. Sometimes they would clatter out of the tube at the wrong angle and go straight into the hole at the bottom of the vortex, which Cady found utterly disappointing. There was something about the suspense of the marbles turning in their widening gyre that she needed, and it thrilled her. _When will it happen? How long will it take? Could this one just keep circling forever?_ That same dizzy feeling had followed her around for the past four days, and now here she was, half-dressed at 6:15 on Sunday evening, trying to act casual about the whole thing.

She examined the small collection of perfume bottles that lined the back of her dresser. Jo Malone Wild Bluebells, her mother’s favorite, had felt too staid and innocent lately, and far too nostalgic. Next to it loomed a half-empty bottle of Coco Mademoiselle, a Valentine’s Day gift from a long-forgotten law school boyfriend. On the end, behind a decorative teacup full of hair ties and bobby pins, was a small dark brown flask labeled Tobacco Vanille that she had swiped from Branch in a moment of uncharacteristic domesticity between them. This, she thought, was both a good middle ground between innocence and experience, and fit the autumnal chill that had finally arrived. Gathering her hair up with one hand, she sprayed the scent once at the nape of her neck. She had just enough time to get dinner ready before 7, so she pulled on the dress she had set aside this morning and slipped on a pair of comfortable flats that were simultaneously a concession to her above-average height, and to the fact that she did not make a practice of cooking in heels.

Everything in the kitchen was in a similar state of anxious hurry-up-and-wait — Cady was nothing if not methodical. Onions diced, garlic press located, appropriate quantities of arborio rice, vegetable stock, grated parmesan, and half-decent white wine at the ready. A small quantity of saffron threads sat in hot water in a white ramekin, turning it a bright golden hue, and eight fat sea scallops lurked in a small tub in the refrigerator, awaiting their moment of glory.

She turned the heat on under a thick-walled saucepan and cued up some music on her phone that she wouldn’t mind being caught listening to. _Esperanza Spalding’s casual, right? Not too… something? Deep breath, Cady, don’t overthink this._ Soon enough, though, she was so immersed in the physical reality of simmering, stirring, and seasoning that she almost didn’t hear the doorbell when it rang at 7:05 on the dot.

Cady opened the front door for Jacob, who waited in the chilly late-September evening in a leather jacket and a loose-woven scarf that Cady thought gave him a vaguely European air.“Hey, perfect timing, I was just about to put the scallops on.”

“Mm, some of my favorite words in the English language.” He handed her a cold paper-wrapped bottle of wine and removed his jacket and scarf. “It smells amazing in here, Cady, you really shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble on my account.”

She gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Well, we’ll see how it turns out. You didn’t have to bring a gift, you know.” Jacob followed her back to the kitchen, pausing to glance at the bookshelves, a detour that was not lost on her.

“My beer and wine guy at the casino just got back from a week-long research trip, I guess you’d call it, to Napa. I thought I’d share the spoils.” He leaned in the doorway of the kitchen. Even at this close distance, Cady couldn’t quite discern the color of his sweater, a purplish-navy-black that merged visually with the dark denim of his jeans. “Give you a hand with anything?”

“It’s about two minutes to done, so if you want to open that bottle up… I mean, if you think it’ll go with scallops and saffron risotto.” Cady pulled a two-armed corkscrew from the silverware drawer and laid it beside the bottle, which she discovered was a fairly recent Pinot Grigio with an obscure estate label. “I can pretty much guarantee you this is better than anything I have in the house right now.” She returned to the stove, carefully flipping the scallops over in the well-oiled cast iron pan as Jacob deftly uncorked the wine on the counter. “Glasses are in the left cabinet in the dining room.” She could hear a vague clinking of glass on glass as she spooned risotto into each of two flat white soup bowls and tried to artfully-but-not-fastidiously arrange four scallops on top of each small, golden hill.

Jacob came back into the kitchen to fill a glass with water from the fridge dispenser as Cady was taking the dishes to the table. “Oh, are you not having any, or doesn’t it go?”

“No, I’m sure it’s great, I don’t drink, is all.” This information was delivered so matter-of-factly that it took Cady a few seconds to absorb it.

“Oh. I see… Hmm.” She stood next to the dining table, uncertain, still holding the two bowls. “There’s wine in the risotto, is that okay?” An awkward, apologetic smile occupied her face, and Jacob took the dishes from her, setting them gently at their places on the table.

“Yes. It’s perfectly fine, Cady, don’t worry about it. Sit, please, this all looks delicious.” She felt a bit reassured, seeing that she wasn’t the only one at the table deliberately acting casual. “Besides, the wine wasn’t really a gift in the way you meant, more by way of a celebration.”

“Oh, what are we celebrating?”

“The tribal council finally agreed on a location for the hospital, and we’ll break ground as soon as we can raise twenty million in initial funding and approve a board of trustees.”

She felt simultaneously elated and dismayed. “Wow, that’s wonderful, but… that’s a huge sum of money to raise before you can even get started.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Cady, but when I was your age, I thought the same thing.”

Cady rolled her eyes at this mild disparagement. “Okay, so based on your _many years_ of hospital-building experience, what’s your estimate?”

“It’s going to be a pretty significant campus, and of course it’s a much more regulated industry than something like the casino, but I would be very surprised if we weren’t ready to open by three years from today."

“That sounds optimistic.” Cady took a sip of wine, finding it cold, fruity, and mineral.

Jacob sliced a scallop in half and positioned it on his fork. “Perhaps. I prefer to think of it as ‘ambitious.’”

Cady smiled and stirred her risotto, hoping it had cooled down enough to eat.Anytime she thought about this future hospital, her heart felt so full she could hardly stand it, and that worried her. She feared getting attached to something that might not happen, over which she had little to no control. She also felt a strange, steely pride in the idea, as if it vindicated her intuition about Jacob’s character. Not that he was perfect, or even nobly motivated in many cases, but that made him no better or worse than anyone else.

They both slipped easily into the stream of conversation — Jacob lavishing praise on Cady’s cooking, Cady fretting that the scallops had been underdone; Cady asking if he had seen anything on her bookshelves that surprised him, Jacob drawing out her opinion on a recent novel, admitting he had only read the reviews. They talked about work and politics, the future and the past, art and music, the possible perfectibility of human nature. Cady revealed herself, unsurprisingly, to be an optimist despite working in the profoundly pessimistic field of law, while Jacob was almost Calvinist in his pessimism, but forced to stand by and hope that the brutality of the free market would fashion all things for the best. As Cady was finishing her second glass of wine, she was distracted by noises at her front door.

“Were you expecting anyone else?” Jacob wondered aloud.

“Hey, Cady, are you home?” Vic’s piercing tone, and then more knocking. Cady got up from the table, placing a hand briefly on Jacob’s shoulder as she passed. Vic peeked her head around the doorway before Cady had quite closed the distance to the foyer.

“Vic, hi, what are you doing here?” Cady said with forced friendliness.

“I thought I’d come by and get the rest of those boxes I left? Oh, hey Jacob.” She looked at Nighthorse and then back to Cady, her face making an exaggerated squinch of confusion.

“Sure, yeah, they’re in the closet in the guest room.” She gave her dinner guest an apologetic grimace and followed Vic back through the living room. “You know, he could see that face you were making.”

“Yeah, well I guess he can take that up with your dad,” Vic said in a low voice, accompanied by much side-eye. “Oh wow, you moved everything off the piano! It looks so different in here!” She opened the small closet and found the two boxes she had come for right in front.

Cady stood in the doorway with her arms crossed, trying to wish this awkward moment to its conclusion a little faster. “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to him, actually. Or, you know, anyone.”

Vic looked at Cady over the top of the stack of boxes and laughed a bit under her breath. “Girl, you _really_ don’t do this very often, do you.”

Cady narrowed her eyes and wondered if there was any way to skip this part of the conversation. “I don’t think this is what you think this is.” She backed out of the doorway to let Vic through, opening the front door for her as soon as it was possible. “Give me a call if there’s anything else you need.”

Vic, however, was never one to leave without a few choice words. “I’d say good luck, but that guy is some serious bad news, so, um, make good decisions, okay? I don’t know what else to tell ya.”

“Goodnight, Vic.” Cady smiled tensely and shut the front door, waiting to make sure the deputy made it safely to the sidewalk before heading back in to the dining room. Jacob stood as if waiting for her, both hands resting on the back of her chair, and she saw that he had cleared their empty plates away to the kitchen. “Sorry about that, Vic’s not really a scheduler.”

“Should I be worried?”

“What, that — ? No, no, I think Vic has more important things to do than surveillance on my social life.” _At least I hope she does._ Cady stood across the corner of the table from him, behind the other chair, weighing her options. “So, there _is_ dessert, but —” Cady felt a pang of awkward realization, “it’s panna cotta with brandied cherries on top.”

Jacob shook his head gently. “That sounds lovely, but I’m afraid I have to pass. Gotta draw the line somewhere.” She cringed a bit, but was grateful for his honesty.

“I swear, I do actually cook things that don’t have booze in them sometimes. Just… not tonight, apparently.” Cady laughed ruefully and looked down at her hands.

“Hey, no, I wouldn’t have got very far in the industry I’m in if it bothered me.” He made a reassuring gesture sweeping the topic aside, rendering it unimportant. In the uncharacteristic lull, they shared a long gaze between them, both trying to perceive each other in the stillness, both wondering how much they were being perceived. Jacob was the first to break the silence, his voice as careful and delicate as the stem of a wineglass. “So, did I overhear correctly, you have a piano?”

“I do, yeah.”

“Do you play?”

“Yep, ever since I could reach the keys.” Cady smiled warmly at the memory. The piano was something she had always loved, something that had kept her sane through four years away at college and then two years in the pressure cooker of law school, and was now something that attached her to the memory of her mother, beyond death. “Since that day in the car after the trial, actually, I’ve been running some stuff by Satie in the evenings, when I get home. Just the _Gymnopédies_ , but I hadn’t really practiced them since college. I guess hearing it reminded me how much I missed playing.”

“Well, in lieu of dessert, would you consider playing something for me?”

“Sure.” _That spinning feeling again_ , Cady thought, feeling herself move closer to the gravity well. She turned and started towards the guest room. “It’s been a while since I was really serious about it, my technique is probably pretty terrible. Promise you won’t laugh?”

“Only if you play ‘The Entertainer.’” _Definitely sarcasm that time._

A handsome black spinet stood along one wall of the guest bedroom, under the window. The daybed once occupied by Vic (and the occasional companion) had been pushed into one corner, next to an antique wardrobe.

Cady opened up the fallboard over the keys and sat down on the bench. To dispel the lingering tension in the air and warm up her fingers, she launched into the familiar first phrase of ‘The Entertainer,’ finishing with a clownish smile at her audience and a flutter of jazz hands. Jacob, sitting with his back against one arm of the daybed, smirked back at her, and may have rolled his eyes. “Cute.”

“Man, tough crowd tonight,” Cady remarked, laying the score of Satie’s first _Gymnopédie_ across the music rack. She began to play the piece haltingly, then more smoothly, breathing with the waves of chord upon chord. She leaned into the discordant inversions and relaxed with their eventual resolution, trying to slow her heartbeat to at least a walking pace. As the piece drew to a close, she heard Jacob get up from the daybed and stand behind her. She half-imagined that she felt him run one finger across the curtain of her hair, and she lay the last few chords of the piece into the keyboard with a bound-up tension that made her shiver.

Before the sound had quite faded, he sat down next to her at the piano bench, facing away from the keys. His tone of voice, when he spoke, would not have disturbed a feather. “What are you doing here, Cady?”

She put one hand down on the bench between them to steady herself. “Taking requests?” Her response was deliberately light, but when she looked at Jacob’s face she could tell that he expected a better answer from her. “Repaying a kindness?”

“Really.” He folded his hands in his lap, not satisfied with this answer either, it would seem.

“Testing a theory,” Cady finally admitted.

“Ah. And what would you have done if your theory had proven true?”

Cady sighed softly. “I get the feeling I’m not going to find out, am I.” She reached up to close the keyboard cover as Jacob stood up from the bench.

“I enjoy your company, Cady. Very much.”

She wasn’t used to being on this side of this particular conversation, which didn’t make it any easier. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m sure both of us can name a dozen reasons why this was a bad idea.” She stood up and pushed the piano bench back under the keyboard. Jacob was still standing there, regarding her with a mixture of resignation and empathy.

“It would be an incredible conflict of interest for both of us. Some might even see it as an abuse of power.” As he said this, he looked over the length of the daybed, putting his hands in his pockets. “I don’t want to make your life any more complicated than I already have.” Cady wondered briefly if she was the only one he was trying to convince.

She nodded and crossed her arms in front of her, hoping he didn’t plan to run through _all_ of the reasons he could think of, just to twist the knife. “Besides, you don’t want to give my dad an actual reason to shoot you on sight. Why, at this very moment, Ferg might be lurking outside my house with his sidearm, just spoiling for a chance to defend my virtue.”

Jacob almost laughed at this image, and walked out to the foyer to retrieve his jacket and scarf. “In that case, I better get out of here before the cavalry arrives.” Cady followed, her pace heavy with a disappointment she was trying not to show. “Thank you for dinner, it was… very thoughtful. I don’t get much in the way of domesticity, so this was a welcome change.”

“Well, thanks for coming by.” She leaned against one of the built-in cabinets that separated the living room from the front hall as they said their farewells. After she saw Jacob disappear into his car, she locked the front door and trudged to the bathroom to start running hot water into the claw-footed tub, hoping to dissolve the naïveté and shame that she felt clung to her like perfume.

As she sank into the bath, she ruminated on the dubious silver lining to this entire sorry episode: the small white marble of her heart had finally stopped spinning, at least for a while, and she could return to work with a clear head in the morning.


	11. Incrementalism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cady visits Walt with some news that she hopes will de-escalate the tension between them.

Cady arrived at the Sheriff’s office around 12:30, the time her dad usually took lunch if he was in. She had checked with Ruby beforehand, and the older woman waved her through with a smile when Cady opened the door. She looked around for Vic, but the department’s only female deputy was nowhere to be found. Walt’s door was cracked open, so she knocked lightly before entering to see her father, boots up on his desk, reading a case file.

“Hey, Cady. What can I do for you?”

Cady’s conciliatory smile was in fine form today. “I thought we might get lunch at the Busy Bee. It’s been a while.”

“Vic and I just ate before she went out on a call. Sorry, Pumpkin.” He stood up and put his hands on his hips, looking as though he was preparing to say something significant. “Henry came by the other day, said you were worried about me. I guess I let all that stuff about the civil suit get under my skin, and… well, I’m sorry you got in the middle of it.”

“Me too, Dad.” Cady was touched, although she noticed that this was not exactly an apology for his actions. “It was really hard for me to hear what some of the witnesses said. I’m sure I would’ve been just as angry if I’d been in your position.”

Walt opened a drawer and pulled out a thick manila packet that Cady thought she recognized. “I didn’t end up filing these, but I guess it doesn’t matter now, so. Anyway, you can use them or not, or just hang on to ‘em. It’s up to you. Plus your eighty bucks is still in there, case you need it.”

This act of trust from someone who had recently accused her of sleeping with the enemy, not to put too fine a point on it, melted Cady’s heart a little. “Thanks, I’m glad you didn’t have to.” She took the envelope from her father’s outstretched hand. “This isn’t about the case, but I have some news that you might be interested in.”

“Okay.”

“The Cheyenne tribal council has decided to start raising funds to build a state-of-the-art hospital on the reservation.”

“Well.” Walt looked unsure how to react. “Hope it can do a lot of good.”

“They’re including a specialized oncology ward so that patients won’t have to go all the way to Denver for treatment, like Mom did.” She felt like she was veering into dangerous territory, unsure when the ground beneath her had become unsteady. “Jacob told me they would like our — well, your permission, really… to name it after her.”

“This some plan of Nighthorse’s, then?” Walt strode around her to close his office door.

Cady feared this meant an argument was inevitable. “He’s the one who told me about it, yes. Plenty of Cheyenne were on her side about the casino, Dad, it’s not like she was _trying_ to make any enemies. I remember when Mom and I talked about it, she always made sure to say that she respected Jacob’s motives, she just thought his methods were wrong.”

“Nice that you’re on a first-name basis with your boss.”

“All your deputies call you Walt, why should this be any different?”

“I see ‘em every day. We’ve got each other’s backs, put our lives on the line for each other. Nighthorse might like you, but I don’t think he’d take a bullet for anyone the way I would for Ferg, or Vic, or Ruby. Or you.”

“Well, if you and Vic are that close, then she’s probably going to tell you this story anyway, but I think it shows one way that you’re wrong about him.”

“What’s this got to do with Vic?” She heard a defensive tension rise in his voice.

“She spontaneously dropped by Sunday night to pick up some things she’d left at my place, and Jacob and I were having dinner together.”

“Sounds pretty incriminating for Nighthorse, so far.”

 _Well, then you’re going to love what happens next_ , she thought _._ She took a deep breath, hoping that her bruised ego could be given some small purpose. “After dinner, I left the door open, metaphorically, for something to happen between us, and he was the one who shut it.” She saw Walt look away, embarrassed by the notion of ‘something’ and ‘between’ having any place in a sentence about Nighthorse and his daughter. She would’ve found his discomfort infuriating at eighteen, quaint at twenty-five, and now merely accepted it as part of his character. “He turned me down, Dad. We have a purely professional relationship, and that’s the way he wants it.”

“I thought your mother and I raised you to have more sense than that.”

Cady turned her head away in exasperation, taking several strides towards the hallway door before turning back to answer his accusation. “I didn’t tell you that so you could… you know what, never mind. Believe whatever you’re gonna believe. Just know that I love you, and I know you’re trying to make the world a better place just like I am, and I hate to see you being so pig-headed about someone who could be a real ally to you if you’d let him.” She wheeled out the side door of Walt’s office, letting it slam behind her, and galloped smoothly down the wooden steps, putting the Sheriff’s office behind her none too soon.

Walking down Main Street to where she had parked, her phone buzzed in her pocket and she pulled it out. _Some people have the worst timing_ , she thought, and sent the call to voicemail. As she was getting into her car, the phone buzzed again, twice in quick succession, and she saw that Nighthorse had texted her a brief message.

_Call me back, work related_

_Out of office, back in 30 or Mandy can help you_ , she sent back.

His reply was almost immediate. _Call anyway_

She closed her eyes and gathered her dignity before pressing the call button. Jacob picked up on the first ring. “Cady, how are you?”

“Fine. What’s up?”

“Is this a bad time?” Jacob sounded like he was out somewhere in the open, somewhere with wind.

“Uh, sort of. No.” Cady rubbed the bridge of her nose to dissolve an incipient headache. “It’s fine, I’m free right now. Go ahead.”

“How do you feel about camping?”

Cady knitted her brow in confusion. “Well, I grew up in Wyoming, so in general I’m for it, I guess. That’s an odd question. In what way is this work-related?” She almost found his chronic indirectness amusing. Almost.

“If you had to live out of a tent for the next four to seven days, for business purposes I assure you, is there anything you’d need, or do you have enough gear?”

“Yeah, I think so. I’d have to check.” She mentally inventoried the possible locations of her tent in the house, and wondered whether all her wool socks were still in pairs.

“Alright, meet me at the municipal airstrip at eight sharp tomorrow morning, ready to go. And bring anything from the office that you might need to defend civil disobedience cases, anywhere from trespassing to inciting a riot."

“Why do I feel like you’re burying the lede here? Jacob, what is going on?”

“We’re sending a delegation to Standing Rock, and I want you there with me.” Cady was surprised, but she could see how the rest of his confusing questions fit this pattern. “Officially you’ll be there representing Joe Lone Elk and a couple other people from the tribe who were arrested this week, but I want you to get a sense of what kind of bureaucratic and material support the action needs.”

“Okay, first off, I’m not a member of the bar in North Dakota, so that’s going to be a little more complicated than you think. And you do know I’m not an activist, right? I have no idea how to assess a situation like this.”

“I value your perspective as an outsider, Cady, and my people value you as a sympathetic interface with the white world. You’ve proven your ability to swim when someone throws you in the deep end, and that’s where I need you right now. We’ll figure out the paperwork later. Are you in?”

Cady was annoyed at having been painted into a rhetorical corner like this, and she resented how easy it was for Jacob to make her feel needed, appreciated, essential. It was a bad position to be in, but as Henry might have said, it was what it was. “Sure. See you at 8am,” she replied. _So much for not wanting to complicate my life any more than you already have._ She slid the envelope of paperwork into the pocket behind the passenger seat and headed back to her office on the reservation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter takes place at the Oceti Sakowin camp, or a fictionalized facsimile thereof, in early October 2016 during the Dakota Access Pipeline protests. If you're not familiar with what's going on/went on there, [this article](https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2016/sep/12/north-dakota-standing-rock-protests-civil-rights) is a pretty good place to start, and [this one](http://www.truth-out.org/opinion/item/38165-how-to-talk-about-nodapl-a-native-perspective) is essential reading. [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dakota_Access_Pipeline_protests), while not necessarily an objective source, is pretty up-to-date. 
> 
> All characters are fictional, and no representation of actual people, living or dead, is intended in this work.


	12. Seven Council Fires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cady visits the protest camp near the Standing Rock Sioux reservation in North Dakota to contribute her legal expertise, and meets someone from Jacob’s mysterious past.

Cady sat in the back of the mud-flecked minivan that had picked them up from the small airfield just south of Fort Yates as it made its way down Highway 1806, over the river and past tents that dotted a good half-mile of floodplain, perhaps more. A ridge next to the highway was lined with unfamiliar flags fluttering in the wind, and an FM radio frequency and call sign had been mowed into the grass. From the outside, her overall impression was somewhere between a hastily-organized Renfaire and the last day of Coachella.

They drove down the dirt path, muddy from recent rain, toward the section of camp where most of the visitors from Cheyenne territory had set up their tents. The driver who’d picked them up, a young man Jacob had identified immediately as May Stillwater’s nephew Owen, continued his amicable conversation as they unloaded the van. He sounded guardedly optimistic about their chances at stopping the construction of the oil pipeline, though they all three acknowledged that it would be an uphill battle. Cady wasn’t even sure which side she stood on, and was glad her political opinions, whatever they turned out to be, wouldn’t interfere with the unglamorous bureaucratic work she was here to do.

“You know, us freedom fighters gettin’ real tired of you rich folks parachuting in here to greenwash your public image.” The voice came from a middle-aged black woman whose hair was held back by a red bandanna, walking up the road towards them. Cady thought she’d seen her someplace before, but her well-worn sweatshirt and muddy jeans suggested she’d been at the protest site for a while.

Jacob, assuming he was the subject of this tirade, turned to address her, summoning a defensive pride. Several people around them stopped to watch the looming confrontation. “And I see you’re still not above co-opting the struggles of my people to ascend further up that Great Ivory Tower of yours.” The palpable tension between them seemed to stretch time, both of them jutting their chins defiantly, daring the other to back down. Suddenly, the woman let out a peal of laughter and broke her aggressive posture, grinning and embracing Jacob like an old friend.

“Hah! C’mere, you old class traitor,” she said, the epithet full of affection. “How’s life on the rez?”

Jacob placed a familiar kiss on the woman’s cheek. “It’s good, it’s good to see you. How’s the intelligentsia treating you these days?” Cady had never imagined him so loose-limbed and comfortable as he was right now. He was certainly in his element.

“Aw, you know, it’s getting harder to find a decent Jamaican place in Queens that’s not overrun by white kids from Williamsburg, but we manage.”

“The Columbus effect, hmm, I’m familiar. I saw the Times panned your last novel.” Jacob whistled softly and made a sound like a small bomb exploding, a gesture which made his conversation partner laugh and nod in agreement.

“Yeah, that’s how I know I’m doing it right, when I start pissing off the high rollers.” Cady suddenly recognized the woman, whose tidy, black-and-white portrait was on the back of a book she’d had to read in college, one that rotated with Toni Morrison’s _Beloved_ through the single place in her American Literature in Review course reserved for “edgy” works by black female authors.

Cady pulled her tent, backpack, and a rolling box filled with legal paperwork from the back of the van while Jacob continued his conversation. She had just about decided on the best open spot to pitch her tent when she heard him call out to her. She set her gear down with the same mixture of heart-floating duty and reluctant excitement that she’d felt since yesterday afternoon, and walked back to the other side of the van.

“I want you to meet the director of my legal aid outreach program, Cady Longmire.” The title struck her as a bit overblown, but she supposed it was accurate. “Cady, this is —“

“Cherisse Cooper, I know.” Cady shook the older woman’s hand, trying not to act too star-struck. “I read _Leah’s Portion_ in undergrad, it was amazing.”

“Well, thank you,” Cherisse nodded graciously, but Cady did not miss the brief glance she exchanged with Jacob. “So you’re here in case this fool gets himself arrested?”

Cady laughed nervously. “No, well, I hope not. I mean, we didn’t talk about it…” She paused to give Jacob a serious look. “Please don’t get arrested without warning me first.”

Jacob’s wry smile made her feel even more like the third wheel in the conversation. “Don’t worry, I left all that behind me in my misspent youth.” The look that he shared with Cherisse in that moment suggested that they had, perhaps, enjoyed misspending some of that youth together.

Cady soldiered onward in her answer to the implied question, putting her hands in the pockets of her fleece vest. “A few members of the tribe who came out here have been charged in connection with the protests, so I’m here to provide representation for them, if possible, and just do whatever I can to help.” Cherisse smiled back, but Cady still got the distinct impression that she was being vetted. “So, are you… writing about all this?”

Cherisse nodded. “Yeah, technically I’m here doing a long-form piece for the _New Yorker_. That’s just an excuse, though, I’ve been wanting to come out here since July.” She gazed over the tents around them with a comfortable pride. “It’s really something. I should let you all get set up, though, I’m supposed to go interview the midwives in a bit. Great to meet you, Cady.” She exchanged a wordless look with Jacob and strolled back to the road in her original direction.

“Wow. I had no idea you ran in such literary circles back then.” Cady tried to keep her tone light, filing her intense curiosity away for later.

“Yeah, well. Politics makes strange bedfellows,” Jacob said, avoiding Cady’s eyes. “Do you have everything you need out of the van? I’m going to have Owen drop me somewhere closer to the river, but you should stay here, it’ll be more convenient for you. The legal tent is just up there on the hill, I think, the army-surplus looking one.”

“Oh. Okay, thanks. I guess I’ll see you later.”

“It’s probably going to take a day or two to settle in, things might seem a little hectic. Let’s touch base tomorrow morning, get yourself some coffee and meet me at the, ah — there’s a horse paddock at the other end of the camp.” He gestured behind him across a field of tents.

She wrinkled her brow at this uncharacteristic vagueness. “Any time in particular?”

“Time unfolds in its own way in places like this.” He looked at her with a thin, patient smile. “There’s a prayer ceremony every morning at the river around sunrise, so don’t stay up too late.” She contemplated several sarcastic responses to this advice, but stayed silent, shading her eyes in the late-morning sunlight. “I’m glad you’re here, Cady.” Without waiting for a reply, he walked back around the van and opened the passenger door. Cady’s mind briefly rasped against a pebble of jealousy and abandonment, but only long enough to identify it and put it aside, behind the more immediate business of setting up camp.

_____________________

The wheels of Cady’s rolling box full of legal paraphernalia dragged in the mud on her way up Media Hill, as she’d heard it called, on her way to the legal tent. The small, windowless structure felt crowded, holding a few tables covered with stone-topped piles of paperwork, a protection against the constant wind. A woman about Cady’s age sat in the back of the tent working on her laptop, her hair in two plaits.

“Uh, hi, is this the legal tent?”

“That’s what it says on the sign, hon.”

“Sorry, I just got here. I’m a lawyer, and I’d like to… help out, so.”

The woman’s demeanor changed to one of welcoming relief. “Oh, hey, great! Come on in.” She navigated the path around the tables while Cady found an empty corner for her box of paperwork. “I’m Mariah, I’m part of the legal collective. It’s usually super busy in here, but pretty much everyone else is out in Mandan today for bond hearings and arraignments. So are you from North Dakota?”

“No, Wyoming. I run a reservation legal clinic outside of Durant.”

Mariah looked surprised. “Oh, on the Cheyenne reservation? That’s new.”

“Very.” Cady smiled. “Anyway, some of our people have been arrested out here, so I’m here to give their cases any support they need, and anything else you think would be useful.”

“Are you on the North Dakota bar?”

“No, but I did fill out the application before I left. I’ve only been practicing for about three and a half years, so I’m hoping my exam scores will do the job.”

“Hmm. It’s been taking about two weeks to get those to go through, so unfortunately we can’t have you officially represent anyone until that happens, but there’s plenty to do.” She gestured around her at the piles of paperwork. Cady started to take off her fleece vest so that she could get to work on whatever task she was assigned. Mariah turned to grab a clipboard off the card table behind her. “Tell you what, though, would you be comfortable acting as a police liaison for an action this afternoon?”

“Sure, what would that involve?”

“Usually a group heads out to one of the construction sites, and the cops are always there to meet them, of course, so your job would be to communicate what the water protectors want to do, that they’re engaged in peaceful activity, that they don’t intend any property damage, et cetera. Basically try to get the cops to agree not to arrest anyone during the ceremony.”

Cady looked skeptical. “And how well does that usually go?”

Mariah shrugged and gave a wry laugh. “About as well as you’d expect. Better, lately. I think they’re afraid we’re actually going to get the stop-work injunction this time.”

“Sounds pretty straightforward. Where and when should I meet up with these people?” Cady took the clipboard from Mariah’s outstretched hand.

“Just before two o’clock down at the main council tent, there’s a little circle outside. If you’re looking for a contact person, it’ll be an elder. Hierarchy’s kinda loose, though, so be flexible.”

“Great, thank you.” Cady folded the handle of her rolling container down and headed for the door of the tent.

“Oh, do you have a skirt?” Mariah asked this question in such a matter-of-fact way, it took Cady a second to process how strange it was.

“I… brought a pantsuit for court, if that’s what you mean.” She tilted her head in confusion.

Mariah looked at her straight on, maybe a little peeved at the misunderstanding. “No, I mean for around camp, a long skirt.” Cady’s expression only grew more confused. “This is all ceremonial space here, the entire site. You’re here to represent people who were arrested in acts of prayer. It’s important to us that you show respect by honoring our traditions while you’re here.”

“Right.” Cady wondered whether she should apologize for her accidental insensitivity. “I didn’t bring one, is there… anyone I can borrow from?”

Mariah smiled at Cady and sighed. She got the impression she wasn’t the first culturally clueless white woman Mariah had had to deal with this week, or perhaps even today. “There’s a clothing donation table in the tent next to the main kitchen, I’m sure they can hook you up with something.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that.” Cady left the legal tent clasping the clipboard to her chest like a shield, hoping that she could make it through the rest of the day without being too great an embarrassment to herself, or to the man who believed in her enough to bring her out here.

_______________________

Out away from the body of the camp at night, it was hard to discern the human figures that dotted the bank of the river. Some praying, others speaking quietly to each other, still others gazing out over the dark water to the small encampment on the other bank. Cherisse’s headlamp picked up a familiar shock of red hair attached to the figure seated on a picnic bench between her and the river, arms wrapped around her knees. She contemplated leaving the young white lawyer in peace, but she turned her head, and social contact was inevitable.

“Hey. Cady, right?"

“Oh, hi.” She saw some of the tension go out of Cady’s shoulders and shut her headlamp off so she wouldn’t blind the other woman. “Nice night for a walk.”

“It is.” The hum of a surveillance plane above them cut through the quiet night. “Aren’t you cold, sitting out here? I’ve got hot tea if you want some.”

Cady unclasped her knees and put one foot down on the ground. “No, thanks, caffeine is probably the worst thing for me right now.”

“It’s herbal, one of the midwives gave it to me. Might help you sleep.”

Cherisse couldn’t quite tell Cady’s facial expression in the dark. “How herbal are we talking about?”

She scoffed at the insinuation. “Not _that_ herbal, sugar.”

Cady looked at the river, where something or someone was distantly splashing. “Sure, then. Thanks.” Cherisse set her thermos down on the picnic table and poured some tea into the cap, handing it to Cady.

“I heard you were at the action this afternoon, how’d it go?” Cherisse took a sip of tea from the mouth of the thermos, steam curling around her face in the dark.

“Well, it was… active.” She sounded guarded, and Cherisse couldn’t tell if it was because of her own press pass or her past with Jacob, or just the young woman’s first-day jitters.

“You’re not on the record with me, Cady.”

“I know, I’m just —” She heaved a great sigh, and Cherisse, ever the good listener even when she was off the record, waited for whatever came next. “So, my dad’s the sheriff of Absaroka County in Wyoming, and for most of my childhood, he was a deputy, so I have this deep, subconscious trust of that uniform, you know? And to be… on the other side, to be seen as the enemy by people who look just like my dad and his coworkers, it’s unnerving, to say the least.” She shook her head and stared down into her tea. “It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be.” She flexed her left hand as if trying to shake out some arthritic stiffness. Cherisse looked at her inquisitively, which must have come across even in the dark between them. “One of the deputies — I got in the way, I guess, when they were trying to arrest some people on the way back to where we’d parked, and… I know I should be less shocked, it was a stupid thing to do, for me especially.” Cherisse could hear how close to tears she was, and she silently put her hand on Cady’s shoulder. The younger woman took a deep breath, but her voice sounded empty and tired. “Anyway, it’s hard to just stand back and observe when I see some 17-year-old kid about to get hit with a nightstick for no reason.”

“You should get some ice on that.” Cady nodded and said that she had. It was the end of a long day for both of them, and Cherisse had neither the time nor the inclination to give a history lesson. “Come on, it’s late. I’ll walk you back up through camp.” Cady nodded, and they strolled across the road, past tents and piles of firewood. Perhaps Cherisse felt a bit of schadenfreude at seeing a newly-woke white girl finally confronted by reality, but mostly she was glad to hear that the protest was changing someone’s heart. “I’ll tell you, it’s not that much easier when they’ve been the enemy all your life.”

“No, I guess not.” She took another sip of tea. “The riot gear, though, and the armored vehicles, being around that level of force even if they didn’t use it — that’s what’s really frightening. It’s hard to believe this is the country I grew up in, sometimes. I guess this has been a pretty bad year for that.”

“I hate to burst your bubble, girl, but there’s nothing unusual about this except the scale of the thing. I mean, I was at Ferguson, Baltimore, Occupy Wall Street. Even back in Seattle in ’99, none of this is new. The technology changes, that’s all.” Their path wound past a small bonfire where people had gathered to absorb some warmth against the chilly evening. A cluster of men on the opposite side of the fire were singing a Native prayer, and Cherisse lowered her voice out of respect for the impromptu ceremony. “‘America never was America to me,’ as the saying goes.”

“Langston Hughes?”

“Hey, you’re pretty smart for a lawyer.” She saw Cady smile in the firelight. Cherisse paused at the edge of the circle to watch the singers, and Cady noticed Jacob among them, his voice blending with the strident tones of the song. Cherisse had noticed him, too. “He’s something, isn’t he?”

“He’s so different here. The minute we got out of the van this morning, it was like a suit of armor just dropped off his body.” Cady sipped her tea meditatively. “How come he’s not a professional activist if this life makes him… so happy?” Cady sounded a little crestfallen, like she wished this wasn’t the right word.

Cherisse laughed quietly and glanced at the younger woman, whose face was a map of her troubled heart. “If this was his path, Cady, he’d be walking it. It’s not like there’s a dearth of political action out there if he wanted to be in the movement. It’s just that this one’s visible enough for him to invest in.”

Cady knitted her eyebrows. “Don’t you think that’s a little unfair?”

“Jacob and I have been friends a long time, and we always will be. He’s got a good heart and he’s smart as hell, and if he thinks something’s not right, he’ll move heaven and earth to get it there. His methods may be a little unorthodox, but you probably know _that_ by now.” Cherisse gave Cady a knowing look, and Cady smiled her acknowledgment. “What you’re talking about, that’s his mask of privilege. When he’s around you, he’s playing the role because he wants your respect. You’re a highly educated white woman from a good family, so no matter how rich he gets or how much good he does in the world, he’s still a half-Cheyenne kid from a broken home who went off to college with dreams of liberation, and came back with an arrest record long as my arm. He is not gonna let his guard down if it means you think he’s anything less than your equal.”

“So, how did you get around that when you were together?” Cady drank the last of her tea and handed the thermos cap back to Cherisse. She wasn’t sure whether to be impressed by Cady’s deduction or annoyed at her own tendency to fall into old patterns with Jacob.

“Being black.” She looked at Cady like she was only half joking. “Didn’t hurt, and being young, living on rice and beans in crappy student housing in the middle of a Boston winter. Washing pepper spray out of each other’s hair, that kind of thing.” Cherisse saw Cady’s gaze shift to the fire, as if by not looking at Jacob, she could stop wanting whatever it was she wanted from him. Cherisse wasn’t entirely sure what that was, but she’d had to turn down her share of lovelorn students during her forays into academia, and Cady’s interest in Jacob had that same feel to it. “Do you mind if I share an instructive metaphor?”

Cady looked confused but open to advice. “Sure, go ahead.”

“Stop staring at the top of the mountain,” Cherisse said, inclining her head towards Jacob. “Just keep walking uphill. If you get there, you get there.” She clapped Cady on the shoulder and strolled into the darkness of the camp, leaving Cady with her thoughts at the edge of the fire.


	13. Wintry Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News from home interrupts Cady's trip to North Dakota.

_Day three, almost out of socks, still not arrested,_ Cady wrote in her mental diary. She sat on a grassy hillock next to the legal tent while her phone charged slowly from a borrowed solar panel the size of two pieces of toast. The morning had been busy with paperwork and meetings among the legal collective, but she was glad for this brief respite. She wrapped her arms around her knees, brushing a stray blade of grass from her borrowed skirt, a thin blue batik that wasn’t really her style, but it served its purpose.

Her phone buzzed its awakening, but she ignored it, figuring anything she did would drain the battery almost immediately. She observed the bustle below, people going to and from the kitchen tents, arrivals, departures, she smiled to see a few children running through camp. The way things worked in all this seeming chaos had impressed her over the last 48 hours. Thousands of people were fed and clothed and housed and educated and cared for, and aside from the protest itself, it all operated quite peacefully. She felt perversely grateful for the suddenness of this trip, figuring that her fish-out-of-water status had short-circuited any impulse to look competent by trying to lead or direct those around her. She wondered if Jacob had intended it that way. She wouldn’t put it past him.

More insistent buzzing from her phone. She couldn’t resist looking — one call and a voicemail from the Sheriff’s office was hardly troubling, but four missed calls from Henry in the last hour? Several texts followed, and she scrolled through them in backwards order.

_WHERE ARE YOU_

_Call immediately_

_In surgery doc says 8 hrs or more_

_Walt shot twice on duty meet me at hospital ASAP_

_Cady this is important please call_

_Not good_

_Pick up, it is about your father_

Her heart raced and her head spun, feeling the ground drop out from under her as she read over the words. She called Henry back with shaking hands, hoping the battery would last.

His voice was choppy, static on the line and a growl in the back of his throat. “Cady, where the hell have you been?”

“I’m in North Dakota, Henry, what happened?” She paced back and forth along the hill behind the tent, unsure whether the pause was Henry’s own or a disconnection. “Henry, are you there?”

“Why did you not tell me you were part of the delegation to Standing Rock?” He had pieced it together — at least that was one thing she wouldn’t have to explain.

“I-I don’t know, my office knew, I mean, I assume the tribal council knew, it was kind of last-minute, I’m sorry…” So close to breaking down, what else could she say? “What happened, is he —?”

Cady cursed the unreliable cell service as Henry’s voice cut in and out precariously. “He is alive, he is in surgery. There… shootout with a suspect, and… left lung collapsed, Dr. Weston is… another six hours before they are done.” Dizzy, the sunlight was too bright, and suddenly she was on her knees in the grass, gasping for breath. “Come home as soon as you can, Cady.”

She wasn’t sure whether she had actually spoken her response, but it hardly mattered, since her phone had picked that moment to run out of power. She had to force her thoughts into line, think of next steps, make things make sense. A young man emerged from the legal tent and she flagged him down, shocked at her own presence of mind but unsure that she would be able to string two words together. “Hey, I need to find a ride — my dad, he’s in the hospital, I just found out — where — do you know, is anyone headed back west on I-90?”

He shrugged, a bit taken aback. “That sucks. I don’t know, maybe someone in the media tent? People are kinda gearing up to do something, I don’t know anyone who’s headed out ’til this afternoon.”

“Right. Thanks.” She strode off towards the media tent, leaving the young man half-shouting his apology after her, into the wind.

At the bottom of the hill she could see a cluster of men talking, Jacob among them, and she looked away deliberately. Perhaps it was foolish pride, but she didn’t want to ask him for any favors, especially in this case. Inside, the media tent was a hive of activity, and it took her a few moments to find someone to speak to. When she did, however, they were only able to offer sympathy and vague suggestions about the community notice board at the center of camp, or perhaps a ride that could be arranged to Bismarck late in the afternoon, if she wanted to catch a flight from there. With every offer of help, Cady felt herself crumble in desperation. After accepting a last awkward hug from a young journalist whose name she couldn’t quite remember, she decided that her least-favorite option was, unfortunately, the best. Swallowing her pride, she walked down the hill.

She stood in Jacob’s line of sight, not wanting to interrupt, and it wasn’t long before he saw her, white-faced and unnaturally still, arms wrapped around herself despite the warmth of the sunlight on her back. He turned to the man next to him mid-sentence with some excuse, patting him on the shoulder and walking towards Cady with more than customary determination.

“What’s going on?”

She had to look away to compose her sentence, or risk losing her dignity under his intense gaze. “I… need to arrange transportation back home, my dad’s in the hospital.”

“Must be serious.”

“It is.” She felt herself blanch further, if that was possible. “He was shot. Henry said he’s in surgery right now, but he didn’t sound… very positive.”

Jacob looked over her shoulder into the middle distance, hands on his hips. Cady couldn’t tell from his expression whether he was disappointed or just pensively problem-solving, but she felt guilty nonetheless. A long moment passed between them in which she could almost see thoughts clicking into place until he let out a decisive breath. “Alright. Get your stuff together and meet me by that first tipi at the front of camp, where we drove in. Don’t worry about the tent, I’ll have someone bring it back. Anything you won’t need when you get home, just leave it here, I’ll take care of it. I’m going to see about a ride to the airport, probably be about half an hour. See you up there.” He walked away from her through the camp, towards the large council tent at the center. She hadn’t anticipated his snap decision, this sudden gift, loyalty or whatever it was.

“Wait, Jacob, you don’t have to — I just…” As he turned back to answer her, she saw that same stubborn commitment in his eyes that she sometimes saw in Henry’s, and she knew this was no time to argue.

“Go on,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of her tent. “Time’s wasting.”

She couldn’t help but think of the rifle in that moment, and the tragic use she’d had to put it to. Jacob had a strange talent for giving her what she wanted least, at precisely the time she needed it most.

_______________________

As Cady approached the meeting point from behind the tipi, she heard Jacob’s quiet, intense voice entwined in argument with someone else.

“—by far my least favorite thing about our little visits.”

“Well, I didn’t ask you to bring your pet lawyer to the biggest collective action since Ferguson, now did I?”

She could imagine Jacob’s vexed posture without seeing it. “If you had done _any_ research, you’d know that her skills are exactly what they’ve been asking for here. I had every right—“

“Oh, and now that things are hard and she’s tired, you’re gonna take her home?” Cady felt shamed by these words, hyper-aware of her weaknesses.

“Her father was _shot_ , Cherisse. I owe it to her to make sure she gets back there in time.” _In time_. She tried not to think about the alternative.

Cherisse sighed aloud, and Cady heard the rattle of keys changing hands. “I know who her father is, Jacob, and I’m telling you, you’re playing a dangerous game with that girl.”

“We can discuss this later.” His voice was girded with a steely anger that Cady wouldn't have been able to bear if it was directed at her in that moment.

She heard Cherisse’s dry laughter in response. “You better believe we will.” Apparently she had either learned to withstand Jacob’s ire over the years, or she was made of sterner stuff — Cady suspected the latter. “But you know what the worst part is? It’s that this time you think you know what you’re doing.” Cady heard Cherisse’s footsteps retreat back towards the center of camp. Jacob stood with his arms folded, still watching Cherisse walk away as Cady approached, his mouth drawn pensively.

“How much of that did you hear?” Jacob looked down at the car keys in his hand and tucked them inside his jacket.

“Enough to tell she’s not my biggest fan right now.”

As the sun emerged from thinning cloud cover, he retrieved his sunglasses from his back pocket and put them on, obscuring his face from Cady’s concerned glance. “Got everything?”

“Yeah, I think so.” They started walking towards the parking area at the front of camp, Cady struggling to keep pace with Jacob’s impatient strides. “Look, I’m sorry if my being here made things awkward for you, I never meant—“

“This has nothing to do with you.” The residual chill in his voice stung. He must have heard it himself, because his next sentence was noticeably gentler, and his steps slowed to match hers. “I wish it did, to be honest, at least then her argument would have some basis in fact.”

Cady knew better than to press the issue. She kept her eyes on the path ahead of them, and her mouth shut.


	14. Credo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vic and Walt do some reconnaissance on a recent bank robbery case.

 

ABSAROKA COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT

INCIDENT REPORT FORM 2A

Must be completed within 12 hours of incident

 

OFFENSE TYPE: [ x ] FELONY [ x ] MISDEMEANOR [] PETTY OFFENSE [] N/A

OFFENSE OR CODE: _attempted murder, resisting arrest, possession of unregistered firearm, suspected larceny_

DATE/TIME: _10/6/16 7:15am_

LOCATION: _122 Donkey Creek Ln, Ucross_

OFFICER(S) AT SCENE: _Longmire, Moretti_

DESCRIPTION OF INCIDENT

_Sheriff Longmire and I drove to 122 Donkey Creek Lane in Ucross following up a lead on recent robbery case #16-902. Upon arrival, suspect was seen leaving the residence with his 2 children in a silver minivan. Since primary purpose was investigation, did not pursue. Inspected exterior of residence._

***

Vic yawned and took another swig of strong hot tea as Walt’s Bronco wound down the one paved road that marked the town of Ucross, population 25. “So tell me again why you think this guy is Cowboy Bill?”

“Well,” Walt said, slowing to obey a stop sign, “he’s probably not, but better safe than sorry.”

She rolled her eyes at his non-answer. “So we’re out here on a social call? Come on, Walt.” _You didn’t have to drag me out here at ass-o’clock in the morning for ‘better safe than sorry,’_ she thought but did not say. Not that Walt had noticed, but she was getting better at that.

He sighed, but didn’t offer any explanation. It was like pulling teeth sometimes, and she understood Ferg’s routine frustration with being left out of the loop on Walt’s logic. If Vic wasn’t so quick on the uptake, it would piss her off too.

“Oh, this is about that guy from the fancy school that called about people paying him in cash, and he wanted to know if he should call the treasury department?” Vic scoffed; she’d had to field some stupid questions in her time, but at least this one wasn’t about a missing chicken. Sometimes she thought half her job could be made obsolete if the county just hired a couple decent high school civics teachers. This time in particular, she’d really wanted to mess with the guy. _No, sir, your student’s parents are probably just run-of-the-mill drug dealers, or strippers, or international arms merchants, or just really good waitstaff. Nothing to worry about._

“Montessori,” Walt cryptically replied. They pulled to a stop outside a farmhouse with blue siding just in time to see a brown-haired white male of average height buckling two kids into a Honda Odyssey that had, by the look of the back bumper, seen better days. It pulled out of the driveway, and the suspect sped off as only a harried parent late for school can do.

Vic looked pointedly at Walt. “You don’t wanna talk to the guy?”

“Yep.” He got out of the car and headed towards the house, leaving Vic to roll her eyes in the passenger seat. “At that speed, takes about twenty minutes to get to the school from here. Gives us a little under an hour, give or take. Come on.”

Vic followed him across the street, still a little queasy with morning sickness. It was getting towards the end of the first trimester, theoretically the time when she should start feeling better, not worse. She’d gotten used to it, as far as that was possible, but she remembered all the trouble her mom had with her younger brother — constant nausea, twenty hours in labor — and thought again about her timeline. She wasn’t showing too bad, and apart from one comment from Ruby about looking ‘well-fed,’ she supposed no one had noticed. She hadn’t even had to adjust the velcro on her bulletproof vest yet, not that she was wearing it for some routine chat with a maybe-suspect. Still, she felt herself careening towards a decision she didn’t feel ready, or even qualified, to make: time to fish or, well, the other thing.

The outside of the house gave her very little to go on. Pleasantly landscaped, with trees on one side to shield it from the plains’ wind, well-maintained apart from some peeling paint around the gutters. She didn’t know what exactly Walt thought he would find, but when she saw him try the unlocked back door, she figured this had been his plan all along. As he called the obligatory warning, she rolled her eyes again and followed behind.

***

_We declared our presence, entered the house through the unlocked back door and inspected the interior. We located bank-wrapped US $20 and $100 bills totaling roughly $5000 in a shoebox under the kitchen sink._

_Suspect’s accomplice, a white male around 40 years old, was discovered in a second-floor bedroom. Shots were fired, and accomplice attempted to flee. I was able to apprehend him after a struggle in the backyard. Some damage was done to the fence. I arrested and restrained the suspect in the back of the department’s vehicle._

_After suspect B was in the vehicle, I returned to the house. I discovered Sheriff Longmire had been shot in the chest, and called for an ambulance._

***

The farmhouse kitchen was exactly what one would expect from a house with two children, perhaps a little messier, and sticky underfoot. Walt had his hand on his gun, just a precaution as they wandered through the rooms on the ground floor.

“What are we looking for, here?” Vic put a latex glove on one hand, half to preserve any evidence they might find, half for plausible deniability. She opened and shut several cabinet doors while Walt swept the living room.

“Don’t know yet,” he said, reticent as ever. “You saw the security tapes, so any of the clothes that showed up there’d be a good start. This guy’s wife’s in Tri-County for fraud and embezzlement, she worked for one of the banks that got robbed a few months back. First one.”

“Okay,” Vic said, crouching down to inspect the lower cabinets. “So you think she’s masterminding this behind bars while the husband does the legwork.” The doors under the sink were locked with one of those plastic child-proof things. Vic struggled to figure it out for a moment.

Walt wandered back into the kitchen. “You just gotta pull the thing — push that button there…”

“I got it, I got it, jeez.” She finally managed to free the cabinet’s handles, and she tossed the white plastic mechanism aside defensively. It wasn’t lost on her that she might have to get a few of these for the trailer in the coming year. Back behind the cans of cleanser, dish detergent and dusty bottles of plant food was a suspiciously new-looking shoebox. Vic pulled it out with her gloved hand and put it on the counter next to the sink, remarking on its weight. Inside, she was only partially surprised by the stacks of twenties and hundreds that half-filled the box. She looked over at Walt with a low whistle and a satisfied nod. “Good call.”

He looked back at her with most of a smile, which was more than anyone else usually got. She’d call that a win. “Thanks. Why don’t you go ahead and put it back, though, ’till we get a warrant.”

“Right.” Back it went, behind the Barkeeper’s Friend and ancient bottles of Windex with their fragile labels. She replaced the child-proofing lock, trying to remember which side it had faced to start with.

When she stood up, Walt had his hat off and was staring intently at the ceiling. He unholstered his gun and walked carefully towards the stairs by the front door. She didn’t hear anything, but she trusted his judgment. Keeping her eyes peeled for any activity on this floor, she readied her own sidearm as he made his way up the stairs. A creak on the porch outside made her turn her head, and she about jumped out of her skin when she saw a gray tabby cat come in the little cat-flap in the front door. But in that shocked half-second, she heard two shots ring out at the top of the stairs. A young man jumped the railing and knocked her on her ass, head colliding painfully with the wall, before crashing through the living room and out the back door. Vic got off a round, but it lodged itself in a saccharine family photo on the wall, and she was up after the unexpected visitor before he could get away.

He must’ve twisted his ankle coming down the stairs, because Vic was able to run him to ground faster than she expected. They crashed through one rotted beam of the back fence, rolling on the muddy ground, struggling for her gun. She made an educated guess, bringing her boot down on one ankle, and when he cried out in pain, she swung the butt of her sidearm at his face, effectively buying herself several seconds. She used these to turn him face-down, pull out her handcuffs and apply them none too gently to his wrists. She called out to Walt, who she hadn’t seen come out of the house yet, thinking maybe he had decided to collect that evidence after all. Getting no response, she limpingly frog-marched the skinny blond runner back to the Bronco and tried to get some answers out of him, but aside from a few grunts, he wasn’t giving anything up.

She locked him in the back of the truck, handcuffs looped around the oh-shit handle by the ceiling, and called Walt’s name again. Still nothing. Her heart sped, and her walk back to the house turned to a run. Kicking in the front door — no point in pretending, now — she pulled herself up the banister, taking the stairs as fast as she could. Time slowed, and she knew abstractly that she didn’t feel faint at the sight of Walt’s blood because it was blood, but because it was Walt. She spun around the railing on the top landing, catching Walt’s last conscious gaze before he toppled to one side, hand clutching a patch of blood right under his ribs. _Goddammit, don’t you leave me_ , she thought. She might’ve said it aloud, not that it mattered anymore. She stripped her jacket off and pressed it to his side to stanch the flow of blood from the gunshot wound.

She thought again about timing; thirty minutes to the hospital with the sirens on, maybe less for an ambulance to get here. God knew how she was going to get him down the stairs and in the truck, anyway. Shaking, she pulled out her phone and called the hospital, stumbling over the address, forgetting to ask dispatch how long their ETA was out in Ucross. Not that there was anything she could do now but pray.

Now, there was a thought. She stared at Walt’s face and checked to see that he was still breathing. Barely, and she could hear it rattle in his lungs. He never did seem able to get a close shave. She didn’t know whether she found that appealing or slovenly, evidence of someone with no wife to care for him. She wished… she wished a lot of things. Right now, she wished the goddamn ambulance would get here so Walt would have a chance of surviving this.

She squeezed Walt’s hand in hers, knowing he couldn’t feel it, but it gave her some comfort, and she could kinda tell his pulse this way, right? At least that it was still going. Looking up at the little arched window at the top of the stairs, she heard the words of the rosary unbidden in her head. She’d been raised Catholic, but most of her associations with religion were negative, and she couldn’t honestly remember the last time she’d been to mass. Her mind flashed on the memory of her Nonna Teresa’s deathbed, the whole family sitting around her, morbidly reciting, beads clicking against rings and watches, the horrible smell of potpourri and adult diapers that she associated with that house. Nonna Teresa’d been a nasty old crone with a harsh word for anyone who asked, but funny, too. Vic liked listening to her stories, and Nonna would always take her in when her parents had had enough of her antics. Nonna had been the terror of her generation, too, she guessed. _Alpha females gotta stick together,_ she thought. She felt for Walt’s pulse, thin and thready, stronger at the crook of his elbow.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou and blessed is the fruit of thy womb,” she parroted the words blankly, running her hand over the hair on Walt’s forearm, too in shock to feel wrong about it. “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners,” _and Lord, I know I’m one_ , she thought, shuddering to think what Walt’s reaction would be if she had to tell him about the ‘elephant in the womb,’ Travis’s inept phrase that seemed to get funnier to her with time. “Pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death, Amen.” Sunlight from the window warmed her face, and her eyes watered. Walt’s breath seemed to get shallower. “Don’t you give up on me, Walt, we got ten more minutes! Hey, come on,” she encouraged, rubbing his chest forcefully and listening for his breathing to change. It didn’t, but it was still there. She started over. “Hail Mary, full of grace,” _if you let Walt live I swear to you I will do anything you want._ There it was, her heart split open like an overripe tomato, over this man who’d given her nothing but trouble and a job, which were sometimes the same thing. _I know I don’t deserve it, but he does,_ she thought, directing her prayers to whatever scrap of divinity she still believed in. _Let him live and I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll even keep the baby if that’s what it takes, I’ll keep it._

She paused, surprised by her own thoughts. _Oh._ Was that what it was? Was that the deal? That simple, that obvious, that bloody  _Catholic_?

“Fine,” she spat out, “but if he dies, I do whatever the fuck I want with this.” Clouds gathered in the window, shading the sun, and in the distance she heard a siren approaching.

***

_After the ambulance arrived, I discovered suspect B had escaped from the vehicle in my absence. I accompanied Sheriff Longmire to Durant Regional Hospital where his injuries were treated. Deputy Ferguson and I returned later that day with a warrant to collect evidence, but found the house locked and unoccupied, and previously mentioned currency was no longer there._

_We have dusted the house and the department’s vehicle for prints and forensic, and are currently pursuing leads to track down both suspects._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A Note on Release Timing_ : Gentle readers, I swear to you that I am NOT delaying the release of new material to passive-aggressively "create suspense" in my audience. I would never do that. I do, however, have time-management/productivity related anxiety that responds poorly to bare requests for or about updates. This is a work in progress, and it is progressing as fast as I can make it go, I promise. If you are really asking about my process as an author, I am always ready to discuss what is hard about the material I'm working on. If you want to ask me if and when the next chapter is forthcoming, feel free, but if that request isn't paired with a substantive comment on the content, I will no longer be allowing those comments through, as part of my own self-care.
> 
> Readers who are also writers: learn from my mistakes, and never post anything that isn't 100% completely finished already! :)


	15. Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the flight back to Wyoming, Cady and Jacob discuss the future of the legal aid center, among other matters.

Once they were up in the air and clear of the tower’s radio chatter, Cady tried to close her eyes and relax, but she was in no fit state to do so. Her headphones made a hissing sound like two seashells strapped to her ears.

Static, then Jacob’s voice, tinny through the com system. “Feel free to put your seat back and get some rest, it’s going to be almost two hours with this headwind.” Sometimes she wished her boss was a little less perceptive. Now, for example.

“It’s fine, I don’t think I can right now, to be honest.” In the Cessna’s close quarters, momentary turbulence jostled them against each other gently. While his proximity was a distraction, it wasn’t really the one she was looking for. “Would you mind some meaningless conversation for a while?”

“I can try, but I doubt you’re capable of anything meaningless, Cady.” She wondered whether this qualified as flirtation, or if he was just being kind, but she decided to take his statement as an invitation to be bold in her choice of topic. If she was tempting fate, well, worse things had already happened today.

“What did she mean back there, a dangerous game?” Cady focused on the intricacies of the instrument panel, holding her breath in the whooshing silence.

There was a long pause over the com line, but he hadn’t refused her question. “Cherisse thinks I’m trying to… make a strategic alliance with an occupying force.” The clipped, clinical way in which he said this told her exactly what he thought of his old friend’s theory.

She looked out the window at the checkered farmland below, laughing bitterly. “Wow. She clearly has no idea that the occupier in question would rather see me set my law diploma on fire and wait tables at the Red Pony for the rest of my life than take another dime from you.” She saw Jacob turn his head toward her slightly, out of conversational instinct, and then back to the open sky in front of them. “I’m serious, my dad thinks offering me this job was part of some long con of yours.” She hoped her incredulous tone came through despite mechanical hiss of the communications equipment.

Signals from another plane cluttered the silence momentarily, and Jacob made a cryptic acknowledgment over the line. They flew on in relative quiet over a clouded ridge. “Did you know he once accused me of hiring you in order to ‘buy his silence,’ in so many words?”

Cady drew her brows together. “No, when was this?”

“Believe it or not, during my deposition for his civil suit.”

Mortified, she laughed in spite of herself. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Jacob shook his head. “Scout’s honor, I’m afraid. Dave Milgrom looked fit to be tied, though, which is pretty amusing in retrospect.”

Cady groaned and rubbed her eyes with one hand. “Oh, Dad. What am I going to do with you?” She was glad that Jacob didn’t offer his opinion, but the quiet stretched between them awkwardly. Casting about for something to fill the space between them, she ran across a half-formed intention that she thought could use refining. “So… I had an idea I wanted to get your opinion on, about the legal aid center.” Letting go of the steering yoke briefly, Jacob made an open-handed gesture, silently giving Cady the floor. “I talked to a couple of people at the camp who were surprised that I wasn’t — well, _we_ weren’t — using a restorative justice model, especially for the domestic cases.”

“I’ve heard the phrase. What would that entail?” Even through the mild static, Cady could hear his skepticism.

“Well, more community involvement, for a start. Ensuring that both sides are represented in a non-adversarial process, changing the center’s goals so that we’re not measuring our success by number of cases won. Giving people the option to seek mediation, pushing for the tribal police to require it in some cases, like for young offenders. I guess you’re not the only one I’ll have to convince.” She stopped to think about exactly how many stakeholders on the rez would have to sign off on the idea before it could become a reality, and it wasn’t a short list. “It wouldn’t have to happen all at once, but I’d like to start moving in that direction.”

“I see.” He tapped the fingers of one hand against the steering yoke, seeming uncertain of his response. “I’m a little surprised by this, I thought you didn’t want to divert people from traditional legal remedies. At least that’s the impression you gave me when we talked about the casino’s arbitration policy.”

“Well, sure, in cases where the power’s imbalanced, like between employer and employee. Not in all cases. You’re the one who told me to take my adversarial blinders off, were you just trying to win an argument?” She was a little disappointed to meet his resistance, but not entirely surprised.

There was a thoughtful pause before Jacob’s voice crackled across the com line. “Maybe, but I meant what I said. Be very careful how you approach this, Cady. Don’t make the mistake of thinking individual problems aren’t caused by some larger system. You’ll miss the forest for the trees.” Knowing he couldn’t see her expression, she rolled her eyes and smiled quietly. She was getting used to these routine challenges in the intellectual back-and-forth that surrounded her work, and had even come to enjoy them on occasion. “If you’re serious about this idea, write up a proposal, and I’ll give it my full consideration.”

 _Fair enough_ , she thought. The rest of the flight was occupied by a discussion of what they’d seen at the camp — what needs seemed most immediate, and what resources they thought could be spared. Cady felt a cold sliver of guilt that she was leaving someplace where she could be useful to go sit by her father’s sickbed, in the best case scenario, and be manifestly useless. Still, she was grateful for how easily conversation flowed between them. It reminded her of bantering across the dinner table with him, was it really less than a week ago? That time seemed so far away from where they were. Since then, everything had been carved deeper, wound tighter, lined in shadowed charcoal and bleached by the sun. She thought how foolish she’d been to want anything more or other than this. Jacob’s actions showed him to be a loyal friend, a staunch ally, and a wise elder of sorts, although she’d keep that one to herself. A mentor, and yet somehow an equal; a fellow-traveler. Her heart softened as they made their descent, and she put one hand against the curved wall of the cockpit, closing her eyes into the familiar weightlessness.

“You alright over there?” She must have let a slight gasp escape her, or maybe he thought she was bracing herself against the chassis of the plane, anticipating the worst. Cady smiled and opened her eyes.

“I am, yeah.” She leaned towards the side window, looking out over an unfamiliar view of the land of her birth. She thought maybe that building with the barn-red walls on the road out of town might be the Red Pony, but she couldn’t be sure. As they veered towards the isolated runway, she saw the squat volume of the hospital in the distance, and closer to the horizon, the angular profile of the casino next to the highway. She shivered, pulling in a breath and pushing it out again, swallowing her fear and uncertainty. She felt the plane’s flaps drag against the wind as the ground rose to meet them, and in the last seconds of anticipation before the wheels touched earth, she put her hand on Jacob’s shoulder, the sudden gravity forcing an “oh” of surprise from her lips. He leaned forward to flip a switch on the instrument panel, and she drew her hand back, feeling the plane shudder as it taxied down the dirt runway.

“That was a little rough, sorry.” It wasn’t, Cady thought, but she didn’t have a chance to voice her objection. “I didn’t see Henry’s truck over by the hangar, do you want to give him a call?”

“No, mine’s still here. I’m just going to meet him at the hospital, he’s — he wants to be there in case anything…” She gestured as her thoughts spun out ahead of her.

“Right.” He nodded, and she was grateful that no further explanation was required.

They slowed to a stop beside the hangar, and she removed her headphones and hung them across the co-pilot’s yoke, her ears ringing in the absence of white noise. The constant vibrations of the small plane had made her muscles stiff, and she used the action of pulling her backpack out of the compartment behind them to stretch herself in an odd and satisfyingly painful curve. She lowered the backpack to the ground, mindful that it contained her laptop, and hopped out after it as Jacob emerged around the tail of the plane. “Thanks, Jacob, really. You didn’t have to do this.”

He looked for a moment as though he was going to argue with her, but had decided against it. “Well, when he wakes up, tell your dad that Jacob Nighthorse respectfully requests that he only get shot while you’re in town,” he drawled, softly sarcastic, placing one hand on the cross-brace under the wing.

Cady laughed, not fully, but it was a welcome feeling. She picked up her backpack and threaded her arms through the straps. “So, are you just going to head back?”

“Yeah,” he said, sounding somewhat regretful. “Drop you off, refuel and turn around, sorta the deal I made.”

“Oh.” She put two and two together, but didn’t feel like she should make him elaborate. It would’ve seemed ungrateful. “Well, good luck out there. Be safe. Sorry I wasn’t more help to you.”

Jacob looked at her for a long while, clear-eyed and direct, finally putting a hand under her chin. She was startled by the warmth, poised in an attitude of curiosity. “Take care of yourself, Cady.” A casual parting phrase that she had heard a thousand times, but in his deliberate, certain tone, the words were a command. As he backed away under the wing of the plane, she realized that a week ago she might have blushed at that exchange, or thrown her arms around him in some combination of heartfelt gratitude and inappropriate longing. Surely any color in her cheeks now could be chalked up to the stiff, cold gust of wind that swept across the airfield, tangling her hair.


	16. Never Relieve Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cady visits her father in the hospital. Vic gets some existential advice.

It had been a few hours, time enough for Vic to run by the RV and pick up her spare shirt — wrinkled, but clean — and a pair of jeans without blood on them, and head back to the farmhouse in Ucross with Ferg, where they processed the crime scene together in somber silence. She could feel his awkward gaze on her sometimes, wanting to say something, the right thing. She wished she could let him, but of course, there was no right thing. It felt mean-spirited, but at least she could claim professionalism as an excuse.

Staring out the window into the uncanny blue-sky afternoon, she had run out of paperwork and was tired of pacing the office. “Hey Ferg, how about I take that speed trap out on County 14 today, huh?”

He looked spooked for a moment. “Oh — uh, sure. There’s a football game at the high school tonight, too, so…”

Vic rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’ll bring extra mouthpieces for the breathalyzer.” Ferg chuckled, but she could sense his concern, and Ruby, too, seemed like she was an inch from bringing Vic a cup of tea and a shawl. Maybe that was what she needed, but she didn’t want it — not from them, not from anyone. “Gonna stop by the hospital first, think he’ll need anything?” She rushed this question, avoiding Ferg’s eyes as she pulled on her jacket, unfolding her sunglasses with a flick of one hand.

After a pause, Ferg admitted he couldn’t think of anything their boss would need in the recovery room at the hospital, and Vic wheeled decisively out the door, away from all the potential drama she might cause if left to her own devices around other, well-meaning people. Better to let herself stew alone, if that’s all she was going to do.

Down on the sidewalk, she almost missed Ruby’s uncharacteristic yell as she unlocked the pickup truck. She spun around, squinting into the bright day. “Hey Vic! Maybe you could take him some light reading. This shouldn’t tax him too much.” Ruby waved a paperback book at her before dropping it gently from the second story. Vic gingerly caught the thin volume before shouting her thanks back up as Ruby shut the window. She raised an eyebrow at the book, a Louis L’Amour novel that seemed more Lucian’s taste than Walt’s. Her boss’s idea of light reading seemed to lean more toward dead Greeks than mid-20th-century pulp, but she couldn’t fault Ruby for trying. And knowing her, it was probably just a way to acknowledge where Vic intended to spend her afternoon anyway.

***

Henry tried to keep his voice down in the close confines of the empty hospital room, but stress and Cady’s unusually combative attitude weren’t helping. “Last time you skipped town, I did not hear from you for weeks. Perhaps I should be forgiven for thinking that you should not make it a habit — especially for your father’s sake.”

“What do you think he’d have said if he knew where I was? The only reason he hasn’t sent deputies out to North Dakota already is because of how badly understaffed his department is, and has been for over a year.”

“If that is what you believe, then you have already been working for Jacob too long. You are _deliberately_ ignoring everything you know about your father’s character.” He generally avoided saying things that would get under her skin, but not because he didn’t know how.

“Really.” Something flashed in her eyes, halfway between anger and disappointment. “I’m not the one deliberately ignoring the fact that he’s changed, Henry. And not for the better. He’s become… detached from reality somehow. If he makes it out of this,” she said, shaking her head slowly, “he has to retire. I mean, he has this _paranoia_ about Jacob, it’s not healthy for him, and it sure as hell isn’t helping his constituents.” Henry had to acknowledge that she had a point, although lately he could see a glimmer of reason behind Walt’s suspicions. “He needs help. He can’t keep racking up trauma like this and just… not deal with it.” Cady sighed. “Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was. I guess it’s lucky Jacob could fly me back out here before Dad’s even out of surgery,” she said, her sarcastic tone emphasizing how strange she still found the trappings of her new career.

An orderly appeared in the doorway, guiding a bed into the room. In it, an almost unrecognizable Walt, pale and drawn, quickly surrounded by beeping monitors and suspended bags of liquid. Henry and Cady hugged the wall while the orderly and a nurse settled the machines into an anxious rhythm. While they watched the chaos, he squeezed Cady’s hand briefly. “I am grateful that you are here.”

Both of them stood silently watching Walt’s body for signs of life, themselves barely breathing. After what seemed like an hour, Cady took a step or two towards the hospital bed, staring down at her father’s inert form for a long while before she spoke. “Henry, do you think this is my fault?” Her voice, raw but not tearful, was barely loud enough for Henry to hear. “Do you think he was careless because he was worried about me? Worried about…” she trailed off, shrugged her shoulders and looked aside. Henry saw a grimace of disbelief cross her face. “The company I’m keeping?” Although soft, the bitter edge in her voice told him who she was reluctantly referring to.

He considered for a moment, rolling her words around in his mind before walking over to the bed, putting one tentative hand on her shoulder. “No, I do not.” Cady sighed with relief. “But I am afraid I do not know much of what goes on in his head these days.”

She leaned forward, adjusting the edge of the thin hospital blanket. “That makes two of us, I guess.”

***

The quiet bustle of patients and medical staff struck Vic as incongruous as the day’s weather. People were just going about their lives, the sun was shining, situation normal. She asked at the front desk if the sheriff was out of surgery yet, knowing down to the minute how long Dr. Weston had told her to wait. One of the many things she’d never developed a talent for, waiting.

She looked around the lobby for anyone she knew. Cady was probably here somewhere, and most likely Henry. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted company or just to know who to avoid. She studied a sign on the wall, stalling for time. Emergency, Internal Medicine, Radiology, Chaplain, little arrows next to each. _Chaplain, huh._ That would occupy some time. Probably a waste, but what else did she have to do besides rack up a few speeding tickets?

The chaplain’s office was at the dim end of a winding hallway next to the laundry room. The smell of clean linens and the flicker of fluorescents overhead was unsettling enough without the tuneless whistling she could hear as she got closer to the half-open door. From what she could see inside, Vic’s first impression was more like a library than anything church-related, and she could finally identify the whistling, which had turned to a hum. The Indigo Girls, if she wasn’t mistaken. _Odd choice for a priest_ , she thought as she knocked on the door.

“C’mon in, hon!” A somewhat strident and distinctly female voice emerged from the office as Vic peered curiously around the door. The chaplain, if that’s who this woman was, had her feet up on her desk and was reading a battered copy of _Twilight_. Vic wasn’t usually one to cast stones, but what she saw wasn’t really inspiring her spiritual confidence. “Have a seat, tell me what’s on your mind.” The nameplate on the cluttered desk identified her as _Rev. Lois Culpepper M.Div._ , and the wall behind her was a jumble of religious icons, crayon drawings by young children, and vintage record albums. As for the chaplain herself, she was a squat, pale woman dressed in clerical black, about Ruby’s age if she had to guess, but with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of pink-framed reading glasses hanging around her neck.

“Uh, hi.” Vic sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, its scratchy tweed upholstery suddenly reminding her of long, awkward meetings with the vice-principal of her high school, regarding her “behavior.”

“Well, you found me, so you must have a question,” the chaplain beamed benevolently at her across the desk. “Or a diagnosis? Maybe I guessed wrong.” She put a bookmark in _Twilight_ and set it aside, studying Vic intently.

“Oh, no,” Vic laughed nervously. “Um, sort of. Not really.” She let out a stiff breath, trying to clear her anxiety and failing. The chaplain’s face assumed a patient smile that looked well-practiced. “Anyway, um. So I’m just gonna say… this might sound strange.”

“Be the highlight of my day if it did, darlin’,” the chaplain said with a giggle.

Vic looked down at her boots for a moment. “So… when you make a deal with God… how does that work?”

For a moment, the chaplain looked like she was trying very hard to suppress a laugh. But after a moment, she nodded as if satisfied that Vic’s question was sufficiently strange. “Huh. So what kind of deal are we talking about? I mean, I could quote you Abraham and Isaac backwards and forwards all afternoon, but I think you got something more specific in mind.”

She couldn’t really fault the woman for cutting to the chase. “Well, a friend of mine, he’s… not doing too well. He, uh, he’s pretty bad off, like near-death?”

“And you don’t think God’ll save him without some persuading, huh. This friend of yours must be a real sketchy character.” Her eyes twinkled knowingly at Vic.

“No no, it’s not that. He’s amazing, actually. The best. Probably the best man I ever met.” Vic stared at the chaplain’s bookshelves for a moment, lost in thought, before snapping back to reality. “But, I mean, bad things happen to good people, right? So I figure, if I promised to… do this thing that I don’t really wanna do, but I’m pretty sure is the right thing, then maybe that’ll sorta… stack the deck, you know? Give God a real reason to consider maybe not killin’ a guy for another few years at least.” She laughed nervously, her words tumbling out one after the other, and at the end she wondered if they’d made any sense at all.

The chaplain sat beatifically behind her desk, as if waiting for further explanation. Just as Vic was about to launch into more detail, though, she gave a bark of laughter. “That ain’t a deal, hon, that’s a dare!” Vic knitted her eyebrows in consternation. “You want to know straight from the horse’s mouth whether the world is a good place or an evil place. If it’s a good place, you’ll do the right thing, even if it’s hard. If it’s a bad place, then if you _don’t_ do the right thing, well, it hardly matters, right? You just want God to tell you which it is — you’re daring Him to prove to you that the world’s not actually so bad!” She chuckled, leaning back in her chair.

Vic wasn’t sure she’d really explained her situation well enough. Was she really _daring_ God to prove that the world was worth bringing a child into? Well, she had to admit that if Walt didn’t survive, it sure would feel like evidence against. But it wasn’t just that. Was it?

She was startled out of her contemplation by a muffled quacking sound coming from the desk. The chaplain pulled out her phone and silenced the alarm. “Time for my afternoon rounds, I’m afraid. Why don’t you come along? Take your mind off your existential troubles.” She stood up and shuffled around her desk towards the door.

“Oh, no, I better be getting back to work.” _This was a mistake_ , she thought, realizing that she had ended up with more questions than answers.

“Suit yourself.” The chaplain turned the lights off in her office and closed the door, leaving both of them in the creepy, laundry-scented hallway. As the chaplain toddled off in the opposite direction from the elevators, Vic wondered if the answers she sought really existed; if they didn’t, she could hardly blame anyone else.

“Thank you!” She called belatedly down the echoing corridor.

The chaplain waved, but did not glance back at her. “Keep the faith, deputy!”

***

Cady stretched her arms over her head, cracking the stiffness of her limbs and silently cursing the uncomfortable hospital furniture. Outside, it had gone dark without her noticing. Inside, the machines by her father’s bed beeped and hissed and whirred, looking more alive than he did at the moment. As she listened to their morbid rhythm, her mind drifted back to what Dr. Weston had told her and Henry after Walt had come out of surgery.

“He’s stable, for now,” he said, reluctant to meet anyone’s eyes.

“That is good,” Henry had replied, in that familiar sharp-edged way that she knew meant _you’re not done here_.

“I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up. There was a lot of damage.” He looked sheepishly at Cady. “The bullet collapsed his lung and lacerated one of his arteries. Fortunately, although it feels weird to say that, it was on the other side from the last time he got shot, so it didn’t re-injure anything from before. Otherwise he might not have made it here in time.” She remembered a sigh of relief at this point, though it might have come from Henry.

“So is he going to pull through?” Cady hadn’t felt like beating around the bush, even though she sympathized with Dr. Weston’s awkwardness. “I mean, do you know what the odds are?”

He looked over at Walt and took a deep breath. “Well for a guy his age, he’s in decent condition, but with the extent of the vascular damage I’d say it’s fifty-fifty that he wakes up, and about one in five that he’ll make it back to full strength. However, this is the stubbornest man alive we’re talking about, so provided one of you can get him to start taking better care of himself, I think his chances are pretty good.” They had all shared a tense smile at that point, and Dr. Weston looked like he was on the point of leaving for his next patient, but he had one last directive for Cady. “When he does wake up, I want you to make it perfectly clear to him that the next gunshot wound will probably be his last. One more surgery like this…” Dr. Weston shook his head. “His body can’t take it. No one could. If he’s going to make it to sixty, he has got to retire.”

Henry leapt to Cady’s defense. “Doc, believe me, you are not the only person in this room who has tried to tell him that.” She wasn’t surprised to hear him say so, but she did wonder what that conversation had been like.

Back in the present moment, she leaned forward and put her hand on her father’s arm, trying not to disturb the IV line. All the petulant, selfish things she’d ever said to him in moments of anger or annoyance came flooding back to her, a torrent of shame and regret. Not for the first time, she wished she could trade all her ambition and fire and intelligence for the ability to just be a _good daughter_ , whatever that meant. Settle down, get a decent job - but not a dangerous one, get married - but not to the wrong person, have kids, but not more than you can afford, remember people’s birthdays, take care of your family, don’t rock the boat, stay in your lane. Always tell the truth, but don’t say anything hurtful. She shook her head and sighed, trapped by contradictions. Thinking that maybe a walk around the hospital would help settle her mind, she pushed the chair back, and was startled to see Vic leaning silently against the wall behind her.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to scare you. You were asleep,” she said, putting her hands up.

“Jesus, Vic,” Cady gasped, still spooked out of her troubled thoughts. “How long have you been here?”

“A while,” Vic shrugged. “It’s almost ten, have you seriously been here this whole time?”

Cady put her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, surprised by the hour, but more surprised by the question. “Yep… he’s my dad, so yeah, I’ve been here this whole time.” Was it jealousy, she wondered, this attitude that she seemed to have towards Vic? The last time the two of them had visited Walt in the hospital together, there had been a decidedly unprofessional kiss involved. She’d been so preoccupied by her job lately, she hadn’t had the attention to spare for anyone else’s personal life. If it was jealousy, she decided, it wasn’t really fair to Vic, and she smiled apologetically at the deputy and pulled the chair out for her. “I’m going for a lap around the ICU, why don’t you take a seat?”

“Thanks, but I should get home. And don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you could use a night in an actual bed.” Cady sighed, knowing Vic was right, unsure that she would be able to sleep. “Come on, you got your phone, these guys’ll call you if anything changes, it’ll be fine. Let’s go, I’ll walk you out.”

Nodding in acquiescence, Cady walked back over to the hospital bed and kissed her unconscious father on the forehead, carefully maneuvering around the wires and tubes that ensnared him. “Night, Dad. See you tomorrow,” she whispered. She picked up her fleece vest and a winter hat where it lay by the window, and followed Vic out to the elevators, the soft, constant beeping of the hospital machines still echoing in her ears.

Bundling herself against the autumn chill on the way out to her car, Cady could still smell the smoke from the campfires at Standing Rock on her clothes, and it tore at her heart, but only briefly. She had too many regrets already to accommodate another one tonight. As she climbed into the driver’s seat, she saw out of the corner of her eye the white envelope that her dad had handed her the last time they spoke. She pulled it out of the back-seat pocket and turned it over in her hands, noticing that the Recorder of Deeds’ address was already written on the front in Walt’s jagged, spindly handwriting, and there was plenty of postage. Now that the civil trial was over, transferring the cabin and the land seemed meaningless; all it would do is complicate Cady’s tax burden next year. Still, in the almost-worst-case scenario, life support could get expensive over the long term, and she didn’t have the details of the county’s health plan in front of her, or her dad’s living will — if he’d bothered to make one. Had it been a premonition on his part, had he known that he might never see her again? The vision of the owl she’d seen during the sweat flashed across her mind, and Dr. Weston’s phrase, _fifty-fifty_. She wished she had done more to prepare, if that’s what it meant.

Cady sat in the dark quiet of the car for a moment. As if enacting a decision she didn’t yet know she had made, she stripped the protective wax paper off the adhesive lip of the envelope and pressed it shut. There was a blue post box in front of the hospital, there at the end of the patient drop-off circle. She walked over and slipped the envelope in, only half-conscious of her movements until she heard the clang of the metal against itself. _Good daughters do what they’re told, I guess_. She looked up at the third floor, towards the half-lit window of what might be her dad’s room. When she felt the impulse to move again, the night air made her shiver.


	17. Holding Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of things are closer to the surface when you haven't slept in a while.

Cady looked up from her laptop screen to the door of her father’s room in the ICU of Durant Regional. Nurses didn’t usually knock.

“Stopped by your office, your assistant said you were here.” Jacob looked concerned, but Cady was in no mood to explain herself, if that’s what he was after.

“Yeah, I’ve been there from eight to noon most days with clients, then here until — well, whenever they kick me out.” She continued typing, then stopped to refer to a paper in the stack beside her. When she glanced back up at Jacob, she expected to see the universally helpless look that she had been getting from almost everyone lately — Henry, Mandy, Vic, all the friends and relatives who had stopped by to wish her dad well, or as she sometimes suspected, indulge their morbid curiosity. Instead, she found him studying her with a restful inquisitiveness.

“I know what a comfort work can be when everything else is falling apart.” She wished in passing that he wouldn’t say things like that, things that showed how much he understood her at some basic level, that endeared him to her all the more, complications be damned.

“When did you get back?” He clearly hadn’t come straight from the airport, not in that suit.

“Late last night.” He looked better-rested than she felt, but perhaps she could chalk that up to years of practice and a good tailor.

“How did it go? The rest of the week, I mean.”

He nodded equivocally. “Pretty well, all told. You probably heard they denied the injunction. Still, it looks like it’s really picking up steam.”

“Yeah? That’s great,” Cady replied, glad of some good news at last. “Are you going back?” She shut her laptop.

“No, I’m more use here.” She wasn’t quite sure, but she thought she heard regret in his voice. “Direct action is a young man’s game, it’s better if people in my position stick to… funding and strategy.”

“Right.” Having seen plenty of people her dad’s age and older at the camp, she wasn’t sure she believed this notion, and was pretty sure he didn’t believe it either. “How did it go with your reporter friend?” Cady was careful to keep her voice neutral, though she suspected this would hit closer to the root.

“Ah.” Something between a grimace and a knowing smile crossed his face as he looked out the window behind her. “Cherisse… asked if she could follow up with you for her article. I declined on your behalf, but it’s up to you, I can give you her email if you’d like.”

Cady sighed and leaned back in her chair, pulling her hair back from her face. “I don’t know why she wants to talk to me, I was barely there. I mean, unless you really want me to. Decent publicity for what you’re trying to do here, if nothing else.” She looked at Jacob for some confirmation, but he was standing at the foot of her father’s hospital bed, distractedly running one hand over the footboard.

“No, in truth I doubt either of us will make it into the final draft.” He looked at her father as he spoke, and she wondered what he was thinking. Before she could really put her finger on it, he spun around towards her. “You look like you might need a break. Buy you a cup of coffee downstairs?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she raised her eyebrows and smiled. “If I have any more coffee today, they might have to start treating me for a heart murmur.” When she looked up at him, there it was again, that inquisitive glance, studying her. “The machine downstairs makes hot cocoa, too. That’s probably more my speed.”

“As you wish,” he said, sliding his hands into his coat pockets. “I’d have brought lunch from the Red Pony, but when I called, I got the impression that the care and feeding of Cady Longmire is strictly Henry’s jurisdiction at the moment.”

Cady was busy tucking her laptop and a stack of paperwork into the lockable cabinet in the back of the room, careful not to squash her dad’s hat and boots, but she could imagine the wry expression on Jacob’s face, and smiled in response. “Yeah, that’s… very Henry.” She cast a long look at her father before she left, but he seemed no closer to consciousness than he had yesterday, or the day before.

They rode the elevator down in companionable silence among scrub-suited nurses and people she assumed were either patients or visitors. As they paused in front of the waiting room’s coffee machine, she wondered what important business he was putting off to be here with her, committing this act of pedestrian kindness.

“I’m sorry, for the record.” She crossed her arms and leaned carefully against the side of the machine. “That I made you drop everything and fly me back out here when I could’ve just… taken care of it myself. I’m sorry if it took you away from where you needed to be.” He was feeding currency into the machine, inscrutable as ever, and she wondered if he was going to ignore her words or brush them off, water under the bridge.

“I’m only going to say this to you once.” The hard, quiet edge of his voice shocked her. “Never question whether my help is freely given. I decided to fly you back out here because you needed to be here, not out of guilt or some… misplaced affection.” This phrase had a sheen of distaste to it that made Cady feel hollow. “If you think you were taking advantage of me, frankly, I don’t think you have either the skill or the character required. You asked for the help you needed, I gave it. It wasn’t a transaction.” He handed the paper cup of cocoa into her cold hands, and the set of his jaw softened somewhat. “Besides, I’ve seen too many strong women waste their power on unnecessary apologies, I won’t be part of that.”

Cady could see that her tired laughter surprised him. “It’s just, when you say things like that it makes me wish you were raising, like, eight daughters.”

“Wow.” Jacob’s eyes widened a bit as he considered this alternate history, and she felt a minor victory in being able to say something he didn’t expect. “That sure would be a different life.” They wandered towards the windowed corner of the waiting room and sat down on either side of a gray formica end table. A hawthorn tree in the courtyard outside had shed small drifts of orange leaves under its branches.

“Ever thought about it?” Cady sipped her hot cocoa. “Having kids, I mean.”

“That’s a rather personal question.”

“I guess when your dad’s been shot for the second time this year and is unconscious in a hospital bed upstairs, the impersonal questions seem sort of… pale.”

He gazed at the milling visitors and patients as they crossed back and forth through the room, but Cady could tell his thoughts were somewhere else. She heard a young girl’s sudden squeal of laughter echo down the hallway, and a slight smile tugged at the corner of Jacob’s mouth. “I’ve considered it.”

“What stopped you?”

“I’m guessing here, but probably the same thing that’s stopped you. So far.”

She looked down bitterly at her hot cocoa. “What, that every guy I fall for has the wrong kind of relationship with local law enforcement?” Jacob laughed, a rare, full-throated sound that gave Cady some measure of joy to hear. “Sorry, I… that was sort of unfiltered. I haven’t really been sleeping.”

“I can’t say that’s been the problem, no. Maybe I’m wrong, I assumed you were focused on your career.” The wind outside picked up, and Cady saw a flurry of leaves out of the corner of her eye. “Mind if I ask _you_ a personal question?”

“Shoot.” She shrugged, too tired to summon much in the way of curiosity.

“Are you doing anything to deal with all this, besides working fourteen-hour days?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Everything you’re going through right now, it won’t break you, necessarily, but it will change you. In unpredictable ways, if you’re not careful.” His voice slipped into a low, confidential register, and she felt her attention curl around his even phrases. “Maybe I’m overstepping, but I doubt you’ve cried once since you got back from North Dakota. And from what I’ve seen, you’re someone to whom tears come easily.”

Although he spoke with no judgment, she found his opinion shamefully perceptive. When had she become so transparent to him? She could hazard a few guesses. “I know, it’s embarrassing, actually. I hate that about myself. The crying thing.”

Cady saw a sad half-smile flit across his features as he sighed. “On the plane, I figured you were still in shock, but the fact that you’re not sleeping… well.” He looked at her for an answer.

It was a strange position to be in. Generally, she would have this kind of talk with Henry, or with one of her aunts, or her old college roommate. Cady thought at first how odd it was that circumstance had thrown them together like this, but she slowly realized that her friendship with Nighthorse, if that’s what it was, had not been chance, but a gradual accretion of deliberate choices on both sides. He could’ve hired someone else to run the legal aid center; she could’ve turned down his offer. Well, probably not, but she could’ve used her legal skills and a measure of old-fashioned western standoffishness to keep things more professional, somehow. He chose to give her the rifle, to define what it was between them, and to endow it with more than symbolic value. She chose to drive out to his place instead of calling to tell him about her hiring decisions, and to share her worries about Walt’s obsessive anger. He had offered his help on more than one occasion, and she had accepted as graciously as she knew how to without compromising her stubborn independence. She thought how strangely easier this sort of bare-heartedness would be if they were sleeping together. Then again, she was smart enough to see how impossible that would make things.

“It feels like bad luck.” She set the paper cup on the side table and wound her hand around the arm of the waiting-room chair nervously, settling into the phrase, staring at the carpet. “I mean, he’s alive, he’s still _here_ , and I’m afraid if… I start crying, I’ll be, I don’t know, mourning him in some way, and —“ Her voice broke, and she covered her incipient sob with a brave-faced smile. “Sounds kind of silly now that I say it out loud.”

Jacob shook his head slightly. “I see the logic.”

“Plus, once I start, I’m afraid I might never stop. That I’ll just feel that way forever. Also pretty silly, I guess.”

“That one seems unlikely, but I’ve had… similar fears.” He stood slowly and reached one hand out to Cady. “Come on, we better get you back upstairs.” She got up from the chair, but Jacob didn’t move. He looked past her, searching for words. “I wish I could say something reassuring, but I don’t think I’d be doing you any favors. I’ve always found it better to meet these things head-on.” His warm hand still held hers. When he looked at her, Cady tried not to be startled by the openness in his eyes. “For what it’s worth, all the trouble your father has caused me over the years, it could’ve been ten times as bad and I never would have wanted this to happen to him. Or to you.”

He ran his thumb over the back of her hand as he made this quiet confession, and under the weight of sleepless grief, this tenuous caress was all it took for her tears to break the stubborn, superstitious levee holding them back. Her free hand slid under the lapel of his wool coat, finding the warmth of his body a terrifying comfort. He folded one arm around her, less an embrace and more a stabilization, something structural against which she could safely collapse if needed. None of Henry’s calm shushing or her father’s awkward pauses, no soothing clichés, just an expansive presence, silent as the night. Behind her civilized public weeping, what Cady wanted in that moment was to throw all her desperate sadness against the impassive tree of his body, to beat her hands against him, bite, tear, wail, scream, shudder and break. And the thing that scared her, scared her almost as much as her father’s precarious health, was that he might allow it.

Jacob sighed her name into her hair, turning his head so that his lips nearly grazed her skin. “People think suffering is this violent thing, when the real violence is to deny someone else’s pain. It’s a violence we do to each other every day.” She detected the slightest strengthening in his posture and folded closer into him. “ _I see you._ ” A soft keening sound crept out of her involuntarily and Jacob pressed a chaste kiss to the side of her forehead; simple, trusting patience. Cady felt something crack within her along an unknown fault line.

From some other planet, distant and well-lit, she heard Henry’s voice call out to her. Reassembling herself, she drew back from Jacob to see Henry striding across the waiting room towards her, picking up pace as he approached. “Cady, why are you crying? Your father is awake, come on!” As he went to put a hand on her shoulder, she threw her arms around him, unable to restrain her relief. Henry’s answering embrace was somewhat awkward, but warm.

“That’s great news. Go on, you two,” Jacob nodded towards the elevators, half-smiling. “Give the sheriff my best.” Cady caught a stern glance between Henry and Jacob. “Anonymously, if you think that’s wiser.”

“Thanks, I will,” she said, stepping back to direct Henry away from whatever incipient drama was going on between the two men. As she rounded the corner towards the bank of elevators, she looked back towards the windows, but he was gone.

She and Henry waited side by side in front of the doors. “You and Jacob seem close.” Cady readied an appropriate retort, but the bell chimed and Henry obligingly held the elevator doors for an elderly lady in a wheelchair and her companion. When they got in, Cady pushed the button for the third floor ICU. Henry was looking at her expectantly.

“Okay, do you want the long version of this conversation, or the short version?"

“The hospital only has three floors.” She rolled her eyes. He probably thought he was being witty.

“Yes, we’re closer than maybe is professionally appropriate. No, we’re not as close as you’re afraid we are.” She looked at him pointedly as the bell rung and the doors opened for the ICU. 

Henry sighed as he held the elevator doors back for her. “In this case, it is not your virtue that concerns me, Cady.”

_Good, ‘cause boy has that ship sailed_ , she thought. “Then why are you being weird about this?” They both paused as they reached Walt’s room.

“That conversation would require a much taller hospital,” Henry cryptically replied, and gestured Cady towards the door. “Suffice it to say, I would hate to see you lose your objectivity.” She filed this away for later discussion, but her annoyance at his need for the last word was drowned out by anticipated relief. Inside the small, sterile room, afternoon sunlight flooded in through the window, and she could at first barely make out the figure of her dad sitting up in the hospital bed. Awake. _Alive._ She felt shaken, and her tears blurred the scene again.


	18. Honorable Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walt asks Vic to do something she’s not sure she’s ready for. Henry and Jacob talk about archaeology.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen him like this before, laid up in a hospital bed, plastic tubes snaking off in all directions, pale as death and grumpy as all get out. It was just that she felt terrible laying this kind of news on a man while he’s wearing a hospital gown. She didn’t think it could wait much longer if she was still going to have options. Better a captive audience, too.

“Hey, look at you, still got your IVs in, they haven’t even put you in restraints!” Walt rolled his eyes at her, but she didn’t expect a belly laugh out of a guy still recovering from a bullet wound. Or from Walt, pretty much ever. “Brought you some dinner, well, Henry sent it over, don’t know what it is but it smells pretty good.”

“Thanks, Vic.” The creak of fatigue in his voice made her heart sink all over again. “But one of the meds they’ve got me on really kills my appetite. Think you better have it.”

“You sure?” Not that she was really in the mood to turn down anything with salt in it, lately. He nodded, so she put the heavy paper sack down next to the chair near the bed. “Alright, well, I guess I could catch you up on what’s been going on down at the station. Feds out in Bozeman say they picked up our guy, Cowboy Bill? Probably been on the news, if you’ve been watching.” She looked up at the small TV in the corner of the room, but it was dark.

“Ruby called earlier, gave me the highlights. Guess my shooter’s still at large.” He sounded less than thrilled, which was saying something considering his average level of excitement.

“Yeah.” _And that’s the end of my supply of small talk_ , she thought, smiling awkwardly at her boss. “There’s something else I should tell you, though.” She ran it through her head, trying to get used to the idea of saying the phrase out loud. _I’m pregnant. Walt, I’m pregnant. Deep breath, Moretti, you can do this. I’mpregnantI’mpregnantI’mpregnantI’mpregnant, one, two, three, GO —_

“Got something I should tell you, too, Vic. Well, ask you, really.” He fiddled with the edge of the sheet, smoothing it out towards the guard rail. Vic, eager to put off her announcement as long as possible, raised her eyebrows in curiosity. “Cady and Henry and Doc Weston’ve all been pretty clear they think I should retire. Now, I’m not ready to do that, but I just want to ask if you’d consider stepping in for me while I’m on medical leave.”

“Yeah of course, why wouldn’t I?” This was the kind of thing Vic didn’t think even needed to be said. She’d covered for him before, what made this such a fraught question now?

“Well, because I want you to keep some of those responsibilities when I get back. On a more permanent basis.” He gave her a searching, serious look. “So that at the end of my term, in another three or so years… I want you to be ready.”

“Ready — you mean you want me to run. For sheriff.” She wanted to make sure she’d heard correctly, that she wasn’t just making this up. “Of Absaroka County?”

“Unless you got other plans.” Coming from Walt, that almost qualified as humor.

“Wow, um — that’s a lot to think about.” Her head spun with just how much, in fact. “And three years is a long time, I mean, are you sure?”

“Far as I can see, the only real strike against you is you’re young, and as I’ve ably demonstrated,” he said with a sarcastic grimace, looking around at the hospital room, “age can be a bit of a liability in this job.”

“Look, if you’re just doing this because I’m the only one around? Don’t, okay? I’m sure there are dozens of other people in this county who could do the job better than I could.” _If only we could get them to apply for it_ , she thought.

“Vic, it’s not that.” He put his hand out to her through the bed rail, and in a moment of what she thought was weakness, she held it in her own. “I don’t think there’s anyone better suited for this than you. You’re a good cop, you’re honest, loyal, you care about the people on your team. You’re not perfect, but you know your faults, and I’d rather see you behind that desk than someone who thinks he’s God’s own gift to law enforcement.” This had to be the worst thing she had ever heard Walt say about Branch, and he looked appropriately abashed. It wasn’t like him to speak ill of the dead. “I trust you.” He squeezed her hand once and let it go. “I trust you to decide how best to protect the people of this county.”

Vic swallowed, wide-eyed at Walt’s speech. “Thanks.” She sat there with an awkward smile on her face, dumbstruck for a rare moment. “You know what, we can hash out all the details about this later, I should let you get some rest. You sure you don’t want any of this?” She picked up the bag containing, she was certain, several dinners’ worth of food.

“Nah, I’m alright, thanks. Mind passing me that book over there?” Vic glanced at the side table, where she noticed Ruby’s Louis L’Amour novel had been swapped for a copy of _The Brothers Karamazov_. “And what was it you were going to tell me?”

 

***

 

“Alright, that is it, good job everyone,” Henry called out to the swarm of eighth-grade basketball team hopefuls. “Final cut will be posted on the board Monday morning.” He saw Jacob enter through the glass doors in the opposite corner. Tryouts had run a little late, now that he thought about it.

One of the stray basketballs must have found its way to Jacob on his way across the court, because out of the corner of his eye Henry saw him execute a half-decent jump shot from just outside the paint. This garnered a few scattered whoops from the remaining students, a fist-bump or two in greeting as he made his way towards Henry, ball tucked under his arm. “How’s the talent this year? Got any room for an extra power forward?” He passed the ball to Henry a bit harder than was strictly necessary for the distance. These tiresome little dominance games were inescapable, it seemed.

Henry placed the basketball in the rolling bin and started to tidy his notes off the card table on the side of the court. “Honestly? I always thought you fancied yourself more of a point guard, Jacob.”

“I’m flattered.” The two men sized each other up across the table as the sound of the last few students echoed through the gym. Jacob tipped the empty table on its side and started folding the legs down as Henry rolled the equipment bin to the back of the gym. In the back hallway, Henry could hear the distinctive click of the gym doors closing, and then silence. “I got your message.” Jacob handed the folded table and chair to Henry, who stowed them in their usual places in the equipment closet with barely a glance. “This about Cady?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Hey.” Jacob raised his hands in a mocking gesture of innocence. “I’m clean, man. I got nothing but the utmost respect for that girl.”

Henry shut off the gym’s three banks of lights one after the other. “That is not what I wanted to discuss.”

“Alright, you got my attention.” The echoing quiet of their surroundings made Jacob’s reply sound more threatening than perhaps it was.

“She had some questions for me the other day about the local trade in historical artifacts. Apparently several of her clients are making repatriation claims for items that were recently sold to the Sheridan historical museum.”

“That’s good, I’m always glad to see our heritage back where it belongs.”

“She said the items were sold by relatives who did not own them, but who had had them appraised at an event run by the culture committee.”

“Henry.” He let out an exasperated sigh and absently scratched his forehead. “You know I hate to get involved in people’s family drama. It can get very messy.” Even in the dark hallway, Henry could sense the self-satisfied grin behind Jacob’s look of false concern. _Family drama, indeed._

“I am merely passing on information I thought you should have.”

“Well, thanks for bringing this to my attention, but I’m not sure what you want me to do about it.”

“You are still on the culture committee, are you not?”

“Yeah.” He sounded as if he expected Henry to accuse him of something.

“Then perhaps you can make sure that this sort of… mix-up does not happen again. I am sure the committee acted in good faith, but the optics, as they say, are not great for the tribe.”

“Hmm.” In the dim light, he saw Jacob run his hand pensively over his lips. “Why do I get the feeling ‘optics’ aren’t your biggest concern here?”

This, of course, was the problem with trying to figure out what Jacob Nighthorse was up to — he was always listening for what wasn’t said. “Cady is helping people reclaim property that, mistakenly or not, some members of the tribe have already been paid for. I simply want to make sure she is not implicated in anything… shady.”

“Ah, so that’s what this is about.” Jacob gave an exaggerated nod and stepped towards Henry. When he spoke, his voice had sharpened to a fine point. “Out of _respect_ for your lovely goddaughter, then, I’m willing to ignore any suggestion that someone on the committee is conspiring to defraud the federal government over a few clay pots. In fact, some people might find the idea downright ungrateful, given everything I’ve done for you.” Jacob’s oblique reference to how he’d helped Henry reclaim his bar raised his hackles, and confirmed his suspicions. But it wasn’t that, so much, that got under Henry’s skin.

Thinking better of it even as he executed the sudden movement, he pinned Jacob against the brick wall behind him with one hand on his chest. Jacob looked surprised, but more curious than aggressive. “I want to make it perfectly clear to you that ‘respect’ is the bare minimum of what a woman like Cady deserves. If you are using her as a pawn in some political game of yours, there _will_ be consequences.” In the darkened gym, he could hear the rhythm of his own steps echo against the wooden floor, over Jacob’s quiet laughter.

“That’s what I like about you, Henry,” Jacob called out after him. “You’re a real traditionalist.”


End file.
